


The Magpie's Key

by anaïs nielsen (jessicadeva)



Series: Shiny Objects [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Blood, F/M, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Light Sadism, M/M, Multi, Murder, Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Shooting, Violence, and a lot of lunch dates, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:18:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 54
Words: 76,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicadeva/pseuds/ana%C3%AFs%20nielsen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the life of a perfectly ordinary girl is turned upside down after a chance meeting with the criminal mastermind, and the loyal sniper sees something he never thought he'd see: sentiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Excuse me, miss, would you mind if I borrowed your program?”_

I think back on that completely innocuous question a lot, because it changed my life - not just a little bit, but utterly. I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d been rude - unlikely at best, especially at the races - or if I’d said, “Keep it,” and walked away. But instead, with the gregariousness I saved for promoting my favorite sport, I looked up and smiled. “Of course. Are you looking for a good bet?”

The questioner was a slender, dark-haired man in his early forties, in an expensive suit, with a bit of the polish and gleam I associate with bankers and high-priced attorneys. His perfectly combed hair and dark sunglasses added to the effect, but something was ever-so-slightly out of place with the smile he gave me. I wracked my mind to figure it out - ah, his teeth. They were lovely, but not American perfect. American teeth never even looked real. He was...English? His lilting accent said Irish. “I do fancy a bit of a wager, myself.” He glances down at the program for the first race. “Do you have a hot tip for me, then?”

His voice is deep, melodic, a larger voice than you would expect from a man of his stature. Granted, I’m tall for a girl, but I’m wearing flat sandals and he’s only a few inches taller than me.

“I dunno that it’s a hot tip, but I’d take the 9 horse. Terrible post position, but he’s got a bit of gate speed, if he clears he should do okay.”

The man’s smile breaks into a full-fledged grin. “The 9 horse?” he says, incredulously, poking the program with a perfectly manicured finger. “Does it not say right on this page before me that he’s naught but a nag?”

I give a small snort of laughter. His smile is infectious and his voice so lovely, it’s distracting.

“No,” he continues, “I’ll not be putting any of my hard-earned cash on the 9. The 1 horse, though - I like him.” He holds the program out so I can read it. I glance over the entry, but I know the horse well.

“Well,” I say with mock seriousness, "I wouldn’t want to put you off your game. If you’ve got a good feeling about the 1, you should take him. I have no faith in him, myself.”

“And why is that?”

I shrug. “Numbers can lie. What did Mark Twain say - lies, damn lies, and statistics? That’s all a program is.”

He laughs. “No, history and statistics are two different things, my dear. A program is a history lesson.”

I smile sweetly. “History is only told by the victors. To the rest, it may appear quite differently.”

He turns to look at me now, and places two fingers at his brow, “Touché.”

His direct gaze is strangely intense. For some reason, I find myself staring at his lips, oddly full in what is a lean, angular face. I pull myself away and glance at the tote board.

“The odds are all crap, anyway. I guess no one knows who to bet in this one. It is the first race, after all.” And it’s true, the odds are spread out with the optimism of ignorance, so there’s no good long shot nor heavy favorite.

The man studies the tote board, then the program. “The morning line calls the 1 horse, easy-peasy.”

I laugh. There’s something incredibly charming about him and I find myself flirting a bit. “The morning line is for amateurs.”

He looks up, quickly. “Oh, do you think so?” There’s a note of challenge in his voice. “Maybe we should settle it between ourselves, then. What do you say? Fifty to win?”

I calculate quickly. “What about place and show?”

“No, I think just straight win. If the 9 horse wins, you take all, if the 1 horse wins, I do. Any other result, we take our cash back none the worse for trying.”  He’s smiling, but he narrows his eyes at me, curious to see if I’ll bite.

And when he holds out his hand, even though I rarely bet, I find myself shaking it. “Deal.”

He holds my hand just a moment longer than necessary. “Sorry, I should really introduce myself. I’m James.”

“How do you do?” I’m trying not to stare at his lips again. “I’m Anaïs.”

“Sorry?”

I sigh. This happens every time. “Anaïs.”

“Like the -”

“Yeah.”

“The one who - “

“Yep. That’s the one,” I nod.

He smiles, but I can see the next question coming a mile away. “And do you, erm…what, ah - what do you do?” He’s really trying to keep a straight face, which only makes me feel like laughing, especially because I know the answer.

“I’m a writer.”

This time he can’t contain himself and actually breaks down laughing. “Nooo, no, go on, you’re pulling my leg now.”

“I’m really not. You can thank my parents. Apparently when they were at university they met in a coffee shop named Delta of Venus. But my father thought it was Delta of Venues. He’s clueless that way.”

At that, James sobers. “I bet you get that a lot.”

“Yep.”

“Sorry about that.”

I shake my head. “No worries. I’m used to it.”

“No, I - listen, c'mere, do you fancy a pint? To get back on your good side?”

His smile is extremely persuasive. Well, why not? I was planning on having a beer, anyway. I find myself nodding again. “Sure. There’s a bar just down a bit on the ground level.” We fall in step together towards the grandstand. “I’m afraid the best they’ll have is Killians, though, which of course isn’t Irish at all. It’s made by Coors.”

James looks properly horrified. “You don’t say? It’s a terrible, terrible thing, that. American beer.” He shakes his head sadly.

I look him over again. He’s very attractive, with pale skin, even features, and those surprisingly full lips, but not so good looking that you would pick him out of a crowd. It’s an interesting contradiction. He turns his head to find me looking at him, but he doesn’t seem at all self-conscious.  

“Are you Irish, then?” I ask.

“Yes, to be sure, but not as of late. I make my home in Boston.”

“Ah. I hear it’s lovely - when it’s not fucking freezing cold.”

James laughs appreciatively and opens the door to the grandstand for me. Stepping into the sudden darkness we remove our sunglasses and I see that James has dark brown, almost black eyes. I realize he is looking me over as well, and he raises his eyebrows and smiles. “I’ll just order then, shall I? What will you be having?”

I glance at the taps, and brighten. “Oh! They have Sam Adams now! Excellent! I’ll have that.”

He’s amused by my enthusiasm, but he nods and heads for the bar. I watch him as he orders. Although he’s quite self-contained, he has the bartender’s attention with the smallest of gestures. The patrons standing beside him never look at him directly, yet they immediately move out of his way. Interesting.

He turns to look at me, like he knows I’ve been watching him again, and strangely I have no urge to look away - in fact, just the opposite. He’s so compelling, there’s something about him… One of us is going to look away first, and it would be me if not for the bartender. James collects our pints and when he makes his way and hands one to me, he looks down at my lips before meeting my eyes. “You have a beautiful smile,” he says in his softly melodic voice.

I am slightly flustered. “I - erm - thank you.” I force myself to look up. “Cheers,” I say, and lift my pint. “Here’s to winning.”

“Just so,” he says, smiling, and raises his glass to mine.

We make our way back to the paddock for the post parade and find a table with a decent view. We sit in companionable silence as the horses trot by slowly. James shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re not seeing in the 1 horse, he’s quite the nice mover.”

“Mmm…” I nod agreeably, “he is gorgeous.”

“Would you be having a change of heart then? It’s not too late,” he says, teasingly.

“Nope, nooo, I stand by my decision,” I laugh. I fight the urge to stare at him. The more I look at him, the more I find him attractive. It’s a strange kind of magnetism, and a little disconcerting. But now the starter call for the horses to approach the starting gate, and I leap to my feet, all attention - thankfully - now on the race.

And - also thankfully - it plays out much as I expected. The 9 horse, fresh off a break, clears easily and tucks in ahead of the pack and stays there, barely but valiantly fending off challengers to go wire-to-wire. The 1 horse finishes dead last.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I turn to look at James, who appears both astonished and amused.

“What is this?” he demands in mock outrage, but I can hear the laughter in his voice.

I can’t help but laugh, too, and I manage to splutter, “Sorry! I didn’t think the 1 horse would race well….” I pause to catch my breath, “..because…” - and now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows - “...he has a cold.”

“Oohh, ach…. you, you little - you knew!” he says, pointing at me.

I sigh and raise my glass to him. “I should know. I own him.”

James’ eyebrows threaten to go through the roof and I wonder for a moment if he’s going to be angry, but then he throws his head back and laughs.

“I did try to tell you,” I say, and he just looks at me admiringly. I take it that it isn’t often he’s outplayed. I hate to rub it in, but I can’t help myself. “It’s a good thing he raced like he did,” I continue, and I grimace, “because I don’t have a fifty on me.”

I can’t help it now, I break down laughing.

James’ face is priceless. “Noooo, nooo, ach - you - ah,” he can hardly speak, he’s laughing so hard, “You, you are a woman after my own heart, you are,” he spits out, finally.

His voice is deep, like a bell, and I could listen to it all day. And he raises his glass, looking at me appraisingly. I put out my hand.

“My program, please. And my winnings. You shouldn’t go making bets with strangers.”


	2. Chapter 2

James pulls his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket and slowly removes a crisp fifty dollar bill. As he places it in my hand, he says, “I suppose we’ll have to stop being strangers. And…” he smiles ruefully as he puts his wallet away, “…I’m not giving your program back. It’s the least you can do.”

"That, and buy you a pint. Winner’s obligation," I nod.

"Too right. D’ya have a bit of Irish in your background, then, with your love of a good pint, the horses, and a wager?"

I laugh. It’s true, really. “I do. My grandmother’s family is from County Cork.”

"Ah," he smiles, "Right soft weather they have there."

I furrow my brows. “What does that mean?”

James laughs, that lovely, melodic laugh that seems to ring its way down my spine. “It rains a lot,” he says, and that sets him off laughing again.

On the way to the bar, my cell phone rings. “I’m sorry,” I say, glancing at the number, “It’s my trainer.” James nods.

"Hey, Dell, what’s up? Is he okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just wanted to check that you’re 100% about this claiming race. You know I don’t like it."

"I don’t like it, either, but that’s the game. It is what it is."

"Yeah, okay," she says, and I can hear the resignation in her voice. Owners, I can almost hear her say.

"How does he look?"

"How do you think he looks? Fucking fantastic, he’s jumping out of his skin."

"Either way, we want a check."

"He can win," she says firmly.

"Yeah, I think so, too. I’m gonna bet him to win. You want in?"

"Yeah, fifty, all right?"

I glance at the bill in my hand and smile. “Yeah, it’s a lucky day, no worries. See you in the winner’s circle.”

James smiles cheekily as I hang up. “Feeling a bit lucky, are we? D’ya have another horse in?” He pulls out my program.

"Yeah, in the 7th. He’s got a good chance, he’s been training like a monster. 5 hole," I add helpfully, looking over his shoulder at the program.

James glances up at me, his expression odd and inscrutable. I blink and it’s gone, and he’s smiling at me like maybe I imagined it. I frown. What the hell just happened? He holds the door to the bar open for me again and says, “D’ya mind getting our round this time? I’m just going to the jacks.”

I have no idea what the jacks are - maybe the restroom? - but I nod. “Yeah, no worries.”

As I’m waiting at the bar - clearly I don’t have the James mojo - I glance out to the tarmac. To my surprise, I see James on his phone, gesturing firmly and angrily. “No, no, we’ll have to wait,” I lip-read before he turns. I pay for the pints and make my way through the crowd, and just before the door trackside, he appears by my side.

"Here," he takes a pint and guides me, his hand light against my lower back.

Outside, I blink against the sun and put my sunglasses back on before glancing over to James. “Everything okay?” I ask before I can self-edit.

"What’s that?" He’s put his aviator sunglasses on, which adds focus to his lips - and very sexy lips they are.   _Jesus, Anaïs, get a grip, I think._   He smiles smoothly. “Oh yeah, just business.”

"Is that why you’re here? In Sacramento, I mean."

James pauses and looks at me, his expression unreadable. “Yes, actually, I’m looking at some investment opportunities.”

"Oh? And what do you do?"

At this, James chuckles. “Ah, the perennial American question. I’m a consultant. Strategic planning, restructuring, asset management, that sort of thing.”

I nod. “You know, I always feel when people talk in ‘business speak’ it’s intentionally vague. Like a bunch of code words, so like-minded people can identify themselves to each other.”

James grins. “Like a Freemason handshake?” he asks, raising his perfectly arched eyebrows.

"Exactly."

"Catholics can’t be Freemasons, love, so that rules me out." He smiles at me, and I can’t help but smile back as we find a table and get settled.

The rest of the afternoon passes easily. James seems to love laughter most of all, and being amused. He’s entertaining, with a story or impression for every subject. Yet, at the end of the day I know little about him. He’s naturally guarded; I am not, so he knows about my racehorses and my passion for saving those who can no longer race; he knows about my show horse, and my dogs, and my mom dying. He knows I freelance for magazines and live alone.

"You play your cards close to the chest," I say, finally. He glances up at me but it’s difficult to read his expression behind his sunglasses. He doesn’t deny it, or say something stupid like, "What do you mean?" when it’s perfectly obvious what I mean. He chooses his words carefully.

"It’s a habit that’s served me well," he says softly.

"And you like being an enigma."

He considers this. “It’s better than being boring.”

I’m quiet for a long moment. I think about the people around me who seem to be content to go to the same job, to stay in the same relationship, basically on a straight-line path through life.

"Do you know, I actually agree with you," I say, surprised.

James tilts his head and gives me one of the most seductive smiles I’ve ever seen. “I knew you would. One just has to think it through, and it’s obvious.”

And then I see it - through this tiny crack where he’s just too pleased with himself to keep his socially acceptable veneer in place - I see just a glimpse of the real James. The magnetism, the will, the confidence - it’s a very potent combination, and I pull back instinctively.

"James," I say, shaking my head, "Now that we’ve had a few pints, I’ve got your number."

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

"You’re the man my mother warned me about."

He’s taken aback for just a moment, and then he smiles, delighted. “Just so.”

I excuse myself to make a wager. I need to step away from him to clear my head, he’s that intoxicating. What would my mother say now, I think - She’d say to walk away while I still can. Oh, mama…I sigh. She’s right, no doubt. He’s seductive and there’s something I can’t place, something I can’t put my finger on, but it’s dangerous. I don’t care if it sounds dramatic. Every nerve says so, when they aren’t being soothed by his melodic voice…

When I return, he’s obviously had a moment to think as well, because he says something very strange. “Anaïs,” - and he gestures for me to remove my sunglasses as he does the same. His eyes are dark, so dark, I can almost see my reflection. 

He starts over. “Anaïs, I can be kind. And I can be loyal. And if your mother were alive - God rest her soul - I would tell you to tell her that.” He nods at me, and the sudden intimacy between us sends a shiver up my spine.

I feel, somehow, that James has given me this glimpse of himself on purpose, that he wants to be seen. I look back into his eyes, revealed now in the sunlight to be a deep golden brown, and it’s hypnotic. I realize suddenly that he, oddly, rarely blinks. Finally I manage to speak, but all I can come out with is a subdued, “I’ll file that away.”

James nods, satisfied.

And thankfully, the horses for the seventh race are called for the post parade and I can look away without showing my hand.


	3. Chapter 3

The horses for the seventh race are on post parade, so I - thankfully - can turn my attention to the track. As always when my horses race, I’m on my feet the entire time. My beautiful boy in the 5 hole trots along, looking like a million bucks, and I feel the familiar thrill of horse racing as I watch him. The starter calls, and I see his driver turn him in a wide arc, asking him to trot faster as the starting gate pulls ahead. There’s the normal bit of jockeying for position and then the rolling starting gate pulls away and they’re off and trotting. Oh, oh - he’s so good! God, I love him! My horse trots off with beautiful movement, doing everything his driver asks, never missing a beat.

I’m literally hopping up and down as the horses come down the stretch, the sound of their hooves pounding down the track echoing in my ears. I’m screaming now for my good boy, my horse who always tries his best for us, and this time at the 1/8 mile pole I see him pull ahead just by a neck. The horse next to him drops back just a fraction and at the 1/16th pole my boy reaches out, knowing he can win, knowing it’s just  a little more effort, come on now - and he does it, he wins, we win, we’ve won!

Yes! Yes, racing makes me so over the top I reach out to hug the nearest body which just happens to be James, and whatever his reaction, I’m too racing high to care. “Come to the winner’s circle,” I say, and he smiles indulgently.

“No, love, you go. I’ll watch.”  I nod and then I’m off to pat my good horse and thank my trainer. There’s the flash of the win photo, and I look out; as promised, James is watching. His look is unguarded, and I think, again, that he wants to be seen, as I watch him watching me. He’s appraising, appreciative, and…calculating.

I step back, and he sees my movement. A slow smile spreads across his face. It says, “You think you’ve got my number? Maybe it’s the other way around.” Jesus. It’s sexy as hell and also way too much. This man is way out of my league.

I pat my sweating horse and thank my trainer, exchange thanks with other horsemen as I exit, and then I’m walking up to James. When did he become the beginning and end to this day?

I’m still flushed and excited, but I try to speak in whole sentences. “Oh! That’s why we do this, that’s racing. It’s like that every time, such a rush!”

James smiles appreciatively. “That’s called winning, love. It’s like that in every field.”

"Not if you like horses," I laugh. Our eyes meet and for a moment, all of our surroundings fall away. _Who the fuck is this_ , my rational mind demands. _Someone elemental,_ I answer myself, looking into his eyes.

And then some form of self-preservation kicks in and I find myself putting my hand out to shake his goodbye.

"It’s been so nice to meet you," I say, "but I really should get home to my dogs, they’ll be waiting."

James smiles and brings my hand to his lips. “It’s been my pleasure. Perhaps I’ll see you again.’

I nod. “What did you say your last name is?”

"I didn’t. Forgive me." His smile is amused. "It’s Moriarty, James Moriarty."

"Nice to meet you," I repeat inanely, and pull my hand away.

"Likewise."

I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away. It takes every ounce of will I possess not to turn around. I just think about Lot’s wife and keep on moving.


	4. Chapter 4

If I'd had any idea, any inkling of the resources that James Moriarty possessed, I wouldn't have been surprised to find him talking to my trainer when I walked into the barn a few days later. They're standing together with their backs to me, looking into a stall, but I recognize him right away. He's dressed casually today, in jeans, a polo, and Italian loafers, but he's still perfectly groomed and has the almost palpable scent of money about him. It's a weird thing, that - it's not so much what you wear as how you move; James moves as if he expects the seas to part, and from what I've seen, they generally do.

Hearing my footsteps, they both turn, and James smiles in greeting. "Ah, Anaïs, how nice to see you again."

Dell, my trainer, a thin, wiry woman with a soothing voice that works wonders on the horses, moves to my side, grinning broadly. "You're so sweet, James was just telling me how you told him I was the only trainer he should consider."

I'd said nothing of the sort, we hadn't even discussed him owning racehorses, but when I look to him over Dell's shoulder, he just raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

"Well, what else would I say?" I smile at Dell. "If I didn't think you were the best I wouldn't put my horses with you."

The older woman pats my hand and points to the stall. "Come see what he's brought me." The horse, although burdened with the typically silly name CaviarNCigarettes, is one of the top in the state and races only in the Invitational. I don't own anything so grand, so I won't be competing against him, thank God, and I say so.

James gives me an enigmatic smile and says, "No, no, that would be quite rude of me, and besides - it's too much fun to watch you win. I'd hate to give that up."

"I'm surprised JT sold him, that horse was his baby," I say to no one in particular.

James shrugs again. "I made him a good offer."

I cluck softly to the horse, a tall bay with lovely conformation, and he slowly walks to me and sniffs me before deciding I’m acceptable. I fish a carrot out of my pocket and he takes it as his due, then walks away. James has come up to stand beside me, and I can smell him, a warm, masculine, sandalwood and soap smell that’s slightly distracting.

"The horse suits you," I say.

"How so?"

"He knows who he is. Some horses do; they know they’re winners, and expect to be treated as such. If I were to come without a carrot, or pet another horse before him, he’d be mightily offended." The horse has his ears pricked towards me. "See? He knows we’re talking about him. It’s a good quality in a racehorse, you want a bit of arrogance because then it’s a matter of pride to not let themselves be passed. They want to win. They know what it means."

James is watching me, not the horse. I laugh a bit self-consciously.

"I expect you don’t believe me, but you’ll see, the first time he loses. He’ll pout in his stall."

"Ah, but I do believe you," James says, in that soft lilt. "Why wouldn’t I? It’s something I’ve learned in business, you should always listen to those having more expertise than yourself."

"Hmm." I nod noncommittally, not sure where this is going.

"Actually," he says smoothly, "I was wondering if you’d be willing to part with some of your racetrack knowledge in exchange for lunch."

I almost laugh, I can't believe how ballsy this man is. What would it be like, to have that much confidence? Well, he's nothing if not entertaining, this one. I find myself nodding.

"There's a little Thai place I was going to stop at on the way home. You can join me if you like. After I check on my horses."

"Sounds perfect. And are you going to be introducing me, then? Does my lesson begin now?"

When James smiles, it's practically impossible not to smile back.

"I suppose it does," I say, resigned but amused, and lead him to the first stall.

A half-hour later, my pupil and I sit down to eat. "So," I say after we've ordered, "You just decided to own racehorses? Just out of the blue? At a low-end track in a small town in California even though you live in Boston?" I knit my brows together and give him a smile that says he's full of shit. "Because that really sounds legit, you know?"


	5. Chapter 5

James appears completely unfazed by my unspoken accusation. “I might be relocating. Did I mention that? I’ve found a lovely flat in San Francisco. Gorgeous city, don’t you think?” He smiles at me mischieviously, but this time I’m not biting.

"You do stay busy, don’t you? Finding flats in a city known for a real estate crunch, finding top racehorses and barns and trainers in a field you know nothing about…how DO you manage?" I take a sip of my ice tea and look directly at James."Tell me, is that why you kept my program? So you could find out the name of my trainer?"

"And your stable, your horses, your racing LLC, and your last name - it’s all public, you know." James stares right back, not bothered in the least.

He’s so brazen, what a brazen son-of-a-bitch. I’m impressed despite myself.

Our food has arrived. I take a sip of my pho before continuing. I’m not interested in letting this man, or any man for that matter, see me rattled.

"I know it’s all public, but don’t you think that’s a little…creepy?" I wrinkle my nose with distaste.

"No, it’s expedient," he says, smiling. "You were going to tell me all those things eventually anyway, I just sped up the timeline." He points to the pho. "This is very good, by the way."

He’s so matter-of-fact about it, I almost laugh. We eat companionably for a few minutes. “You know,” I say finally, “I prefer to make my own decisions. I strongly dislike having them made for me.”

James sips the both thoughtfully. “Well, love, I didn’t make a decision for you as much as I just…anticipated…the decision you would eventually make yourself.”

"That’s a great rationale, and I do admire your fancy mental footwork, but you could have been wrong."

Now it’s James who sets down his bowl and looks directly at me. “No, I don’t think so. I’m a student of human nature, you see? What makes people tick. It’s my specialty, you might say. Everything else flows from there, Anaïs.”

I have the queerest feeling at the back of my neck, like the hairs are standing up. I keep my composure, but I’m really no longer amused.

"And let me guess, right now you think I’m going to ask you what makes me tick, but I’m really not." I reach for my purse and my wallet, and draw out some bills to cover my portion of the bill.

"I’m going to thank you for your charming company, wish you the best of luck in your new endeavor as a racehorse owner, and go home to my dogs. Who are safe and uncomplicated," I add for good measure.

James stands politely as I rise, frowning slightly. “Of course you’re not going to ask me such a pedestrian question. That would be admitting you enjoy my interest.” He smiles, amusement on his extraordinarily expressive face. “And just so you know, I don’t MAKE people do things. They choose to. I’m a big believer in free will, you know.” He nods at me, like we’re conspirators in his little secret.

At my silence, he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a card, which I find myself taking, curious. _Curiosity killed the cat, Anaïs._

"But satisfaction brought him back," James says, smoothly, and raises his eyebrows at me. At my startled glance, he adds,"You did say it aloud. Just in case you were wondering."

Great, fantastic. Now my thoughts aren’t even my own. I glance down at the card, which simply says: J. Moriarty - Consultant, and lists a number with an unfamiliar area code. I turn the thick cardstock over in my hand. On the back a magpie is taking flight off the corner of the card. Well. Apparently those who need to know, know already. Which is. Not. Me.

"I’m giving you this for two reasons," James says. "One is so you can call me when you’d like to see me, obviously. But secondly…" - and now he tilts his head to the side, appraising me - "… I like you. Call me if you have a problem you need solved, and I’ll take care of it."

Not freaking likely. I don’t even want to know how that scenario would run. I turn the card over in my hand again, then slip it into my purse. “Did you really spend $45,000 just to see me again?”

James laughs. “No, I spent it because I like to win. I could have claimed a $7000 nag and still had the chance to say hello. Besides,” he shrugs now, “I got a good deal.”

Something in his voice brings back that queer feeling. I know the horse James bought was the apple of his trainer’s eye. No way was the owner parting with him that easily. _I like to win_ , I hear in James’ voice again.

"So, you believe in free will," I say. "Do you know what I believe in? I believe in no bullshit."  I pick up my purse to leave. "And in the spirit of that motto - you scare me."

James’ expression doesn’t change, he just nods. But then he steps forward, ever so slightly, and lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “But I would never hurt you.”

The effect is so intimate, it’s like being kissed by words. I can smell him again and his neck is just at eye level and I have to fight off the powerful urge to feel it under my lips. Flustered, I step back.

"Right. Okay. Well…have a lovely day."

As I turn away, he says, “You too. May you have a day worthy of your smile, Anaïs,” and I can hear the amusement in his voice.


	6. Chapter 6

Later, after I've walked the dogs and poured myself a beer, I retrieve the card from my purse and turn it over and over again in my hand. Why a magpie? I'll have to look that up. I do my research, too - I really can't fault James for that. Of course, I'm nowhere near as bold, and I don't have 45k to spend for amusement, but that isn't what unnerves me about him.

It's his intensity - like he can turn it on and off at will. Or maybe, more accurately, choose to show it or not show it. It's probably on all the time, running just under the surface, that will to win, to shape the world to his liking.

I place the card in the large wooden bowl I keep in the foyer for odds and ends, and resolve not to think about it - or him. I like some semblance of equality in my dating life, and I don't see that as a possibility with James. He's much too much for me.

****

Later, I'll think of that as my 'best-laid-plans' resolution, because in that weird way the universe has of lining things up without our approval or permission, it's just a few days later when I receive a phone call from my editor, Jane. She works for a large-circulation national magazine and has always been a fan of my work, and I'm lucky to have her. Now, however, her voice sounds strained.

"I just wanted to give you a heads-up, our legal department just informed me we're being sued over the Chet Carlton article."

"What?" I'm dumbfounded. My article is due to be published next issue.

"Yes, it's a mess, we're going to have to find a fill for the article - your article's publication is halted indefinitely, obviously - and it sounds like they'll be serving you individually, as well." Jane sounds as apologetic as an editor whose print layout is now fucked can sound.

"Are you kidding me? On what grounds?"

Jane sighs. "Libel. Carlton has retracted all his quotes. He says you fabricated them, all of them."

I can actually feel the blood draining from my face. I am suddenly so angry I'm shaking, but I keep my voice modulated. "That's bullshit. You know that's bullshit. Are you serious?"

"I know," Jane reassures me, "And I believe you, but we can't run it, and if I were you, I'd call your attorney and tell him to man the battle stations."

"Yeah, yeah okay."

"I have to run, dear. I've gotta find some way to keep this issue afloat."

"Thanks, Jane. I mean it."

When she hangs up, I just stare at the phone for a minute. Chet Carlton. That absolute FUCKER. I could literally strangle his fat neck with my bare hands, I'm so angry.

I don't usually do any kind of investigative journalism, so I'm not prepared for this kind of thing. I specialize in profiles - like right at the moment I'm working on the three "Hottest New Restaurateurs" in our area, that sort of thing. I just stumbled on to the Chet Carlton story when I was covering the opening of a swank new Country Club and golf course in the suburbs. Carlton is a developer, he put the deal together, and I guess he likes attention, because he asked me out to dinner. It's not my fault he had too many whisky sours and told me about what a genius he was to get the development permit pushed through without an environmental review...right?

Jesus. I phone my attorney, a friend I've known since he was in law school. At my explanation of events, he does nothing to cheer me up by muttering all kinds of dire warnings about damages and defamation of character, and who knows what else. I'm too stressed to take it all in, so I make lots of indeterminate agreeable noises and get off the phone as quickly as I can.

Then I phone my private investigator. He answers before it's even rung on my end.

"Richard Brook. Yeah?"

"Richard, it's Anaïs. Are you - are you busy?"

"Anaïs, sorry, yeah. I've got two minutes. What?"

"The Chet Carlton file. How much of it is admissible in court?"

"Oh, fuck, why?"

"I'm being sued."

"Shit. Hmm, admissible? Very little. I'll look into it. Gotta go."

"Wait, Rich - " He's hung up. Dammit!

But not to worry, my phone rings again. It's my attorney. He's been served. We've been served. I've been served. Whatever. I can't think straight. I'm seeing dollar signs I just don't have dancing out the door just to prepare for this case. That's the problem with being freelance, you've got no cover.

I need a distraction, so I do what I always do when I'm stressed out - I head for the morning workouts at the racetrack.

 


	7. Chapter 7

I love the racetrack in the early morning, when it’s still cool and only trainers, drivers, and owners mill about. I love watching the horses, some out for their daily three-mile jog, while a smaller percent train on the inside lanes at speed. One of my horses - the one that had a cold - will just be out for a slow jog, but another, coming off a period of turn-out at a farm, will train for the first time today, and I’m eager to see how he’s moving and check his times.

I make my way through a small crowd of horsemen - nodding, smiling, making racecourse chat - to a good spot at the rail between the 1/8th pole and the finish line, and set my coffee down briefly to find my stopwatch. It isn’t until a nearby trainer walks off in disgust, several owners following in his wake, that I see him: James, ever immaculate, leaning on the rail several spots down with his back to me, intently watching the field with a small pair of binoculars. Interesting. So he really does like racing. I wonder if he’s planning on creating a stable of his own.

I realize that I’m staring, and tell myself to refocus. I sift through all the horses warming up until I find the colors of our driver and I watch, carefully, as he turns the horse and sets him up for his training mile. There’s something bothering me about it but I can’t put my finger on it until I see his fractions and see he’s getting slower with every quarter - just the opposite of what you would want in a race.

When the horse is turned for his cool-down jog, I see it - he’s off, just enough, where he was previously injured. Even though he looked completely sound jogging, often it isn’t until they’re under the stress of moving at speed that the problems show. Dammit! I can’t make any assumptions on a timeline until I talk to Dell, but he’s gonna be out - again. And horses don’t eat less just because they’re not racing. I text Dell to call me with the news when she can, and shake my head. Not my week, I guess.

"What would it take to bring a smile to your face, my dear Anaïs? You look put out, love."

That lovely, melodic lilt. It’s impossible not to smile as I look up to see James looking at me with some concern. “Good morning,” I say, neutrally.

James glances over my face appraisingly. “Is it your horse that’s just trained, then? He looked a bit off to my eye, is that what’s bothering you?”

It’s an unwritten rule that you never discuss your own horse’s injuries, but I find myself saying, “You have a good eye. Do you actually know horses?” I don’t mean it to sound as rude as it does.

James laughs as he looks out over the track. “I’m Irish, of course I know horses.” He sobers a bit, and says, “I don’t know racing as well as I’d like, but I know enough to see a good horse and to know when he’s off.”

"Mm." I make a noncommittal sound while I force myself to look over the track and not stare at James. What IS it about him that makes him so intriguing?

We watch the morning workouts companionably for a few minutes. A lovely breeze has come up off the American River, and the sun has peeked out from behind the clouds. As I reach for my sunglasses, James says mildly, “I do actually like racing, you know. If you recall, I was here, at the track, before I’d even met you.”

I giggle, I can’t help myself. “Are you making a case here that you’re not, in fact, a stalker?”

"Is it working?" He raises his eyebrows.

"It might be, let me finish my coffee and I’ll let you know."

And because, somehow, this day just refuses to let me off the hook, my phone rings.

"Oh, Christ," I mutter as I check the caller ID and see that it’s my attorney. "Excuse me," I say to James, and step away.

"What bad news do you have for me now?" I say in opening.

"Really, that’s not a very good attitude," Rob says reprovingly.

"But true, so spill."

"I got ahold of one of Carlton’s attorneys, and they’re playing hardball. No room to negotiate, they want your head on a platter."

I draw in a quick breath. “What the fuck, why? Jesus, I can’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.”

"My guess? You got too close to something, I don’t know what, and I don’t want to know. But they’re gonna make an example out of you." Rob’s voice is low-key, but I know he’s not one to exaggerate.

"Shit." I put my hand over my eyes for a moment, willing myself not to cry. "Shit, shit, SHIT. What do we do now?"

"I file a motion to give us some time, I get those files from your P.I., you collect your interview notes, and we get ready to go to court."

"Aren’t they worried that going to court will bring these allegations front and center? Why wouldn’t they want to settle?"

Rob sighs. “It wouldn’t be my strategy, that’s for sure. Maybe they just want to bust our balls a little bit first.”

"Yeah, well, it’s working. Alright, thanks."

"You bet." He hangs up without a goodbye.

I press my fingers into my eyelids. _You are in public, Anaïs, get a grip, goddammit._ I take a deep breath and open my eyes to find James standing directly in front of me.

"Why didn’t you call me?"

"What do you mean?"

"This is what I do, Anaïs, I solve problems. You obviously have a very unpleasant problem on your hands, so let me ask you again: Why didn’t you call me?"

 


	8. Chapter 8

James looks at me intently, and it's clear I won't be squirming out of an answer.

I swallow. "I don't like owing anyone," I say quietly.

James frowns. "Who said anything about owing anyone?"

"What are your fees?" I raise my chin, looking at him squarely. I'm not a charity case, after all.

"No fee. I told you, I like you." He tilts his head, no doubt gauging my resistance.

"Forgive me if this sounds rude, but I'm not interested in being in your debt."

"No, no," James says, chuckling, "You're quite mistaken. You're not - or won't be - in my debt. It's my pleasure, really." He smiles, amused. "Let's just say I want you to see who I am. What I can do."

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out and I shut it abruptly. Am I in a position to refuse?

I am actually relieved when the phone rings, even though it's Dell, who no doubt has news I don't want to hear. "Er...excuse me again, sorry," I nod to James. "Dell - don't sugar coat it, sugar."

"Oh shit, Anaïs, I really thought it was fine, and then -"

"I know, I know. Has the vet been out?"

"Not yet, but he's gonna say six months this time."

I take a deep breath. The moment of truth. "Is he worth it?"

"Really?" I can almost hear the older woman's frown. "I just don't know. I thought he could come back. I mean - let me see what I've got for long-term turn-out. Maybe if we can keep the cost down..."

"Yeah, you know me. Hate to give up on him."

"I know, hon. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Dell. I mean it."

When she hangs up, I am very quiet, considering my options. I love my horses, but more than that, if I don't invest the time in him, chances are his racing career is over. And then what? There's no market for sound, thoroughly vetted Standardbreds, nevermind one off for half a year with an injury.

I can feel James’ eyes on me and for that reason, as well as my general mental health, I let my breath out slowly and straighten my shoulders. “Right. Ooooohkay. You were saying?”

James looks at me for a long moment. “You need me.” He shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with that, you know. Needing someone else.”

I blink. Has he just called me out? By golly, I think he has, but - he’s right. I hate to admit it, but I really could use some help. As for the other - “Oh? And do you need other people? Because you seem quite alone to me.”

"You don’t know me very well, then," he says, voice pitched low so I have to lean forward to hear him. "Of course I need people. I’m just extremely particular about who I include in my world."

I don’t have a response to that. I feel as ordinary as yesterday’s paper, as the crumpled betting slips that blow by us in the breeze as I look out over the racetrack.

I feel James place a light hand on my shoulder. "Good Lord, but you're moody today," he says lightly. "Do I need to feed you breakfast, or is there an easier fix to be had?"

I make my decision quickly, before I can question myself. "I need to walk the dogs, I was planning on the Parkway - do you want to come with? I mean, if you like dogs..."

"I'm Irish," he says, "Of course I like dogs."


	9. Chapter 9

We meet up at the Parkway Circle and of course the dogs - presumably sniffing out his Irishness - bound right up to him. "This is Moffat - there's a good girl - and this one, the boxer, this is Gatiss," I say, trying to get them to chill.

"It's really fine," James says, and leans down to pat them hello.

"Yeah, well, they need to be on leash for the walk."

"Such interesting names,' he says, not unkindly, as they curl around his legs.

I manage to get leashes on and start walking. "Oh, yeah -" I grin as Moffat pulls me up alongside James, " - favorite writers of mine. You know -" and I laugh, because finding writers in common is, in fact, so uncommon, but here I'm bested again.

"- Dr. Who?" James looks at me like I've just landed.

I suppress a gasp. "Are you kidding? You don't REALLY watch it, do you?"

"What?" he demands. "Now you're the one joking, of COURSE I do."

I don't believe him. ""Which doctor, then?"

"Ten"

"Shut up."

"Nooo, I'm, quite serious."

I shake my head, sadly. "I don't know if I can love you, then."

"Oh, you don't say?" James is grinning now.

I nod. "Ten's much too easy. It's Nine for me."

"I'll not be arguing with you now that I'm finally back in your good graces," James says easily. "I'll be filing that one away to discuss over a nice bottle of wine."

"Did I say you were back in my good graces?"

"You said I could help. That will do, for now."

We climb up the stairs to the levee, with a view over the Parkway and down to the golf course. I glance over at James. He's dressed in jogging pants, trainers, and a t-shirt, yet he manages to look like he's wearing Prada. There's a cross on the chain around his neck, and already just a trace of the shadow of dark hair under his pale skin.

_Good lord, Anaïs, he's not here for your perusal. Get a grip._

"Tell me about Carlton," James says, pulling me back to reality.

I outline the situation, and anger flares up in me, even while I keep my voice low. "Corrupt son-of-a-bitch. How stupid can you be, asking a journalist out to dinner and then bragging about your activities? I suppose he didn't take me seriously, being a girl and all..." I shrug. "It doesn't matter, though, I've got no power here because I've got no backing. You can't get anywhere in this world without backing, you know, but to get it you have to use the same methods you're criticizing. It makes me crazy. It's fucking unjust, and I hate injustice."

James sounds faintly amused. "I'm more pragmatic, myself. Although, I do like a challenge, and that's often what it is - to be on the winning side and the just side at once. But -" and now he smiles broadly, "- I think in this case it's quite possible to do both. So relax, my dear. This is an easy fix."

I would stop in surprise, but the dogs have other ideas and pull me right along, so all I can do is stare at James. "Do I want to know what you mean by that?"

"I doubt it," James replies cheerfully.

We walk in silence for quite a long way while I mull all of this over. And there's something else, something about James completely separate from all this that's niggling at me, if only I could just put my finger on it. I glance at him again, a real toe-to-head once-over of all his immaculate details, and suddenly I know what it is.

"You like boys."

"What?" It's the first time I've ever heard James surprised.

"You like boys," I say again. "Girls aren't your primary, right? Not even often on your radar."

James steps to me quickly and grabs me by the wrist, halting my progress. There's no smile now, and it never ceases to amaze me, how fast he can go from cheerful to intense, even menacing. He leans in and his tone says this isn't up for discussion. "I like what suits me."

His lips are only inches from mine. How can someone be so frightening and yet so devastatingly attractive at the same time? My heart is pounding in my ears and I realize I need to be very, very careful about misjudging this man.

Gatiss picks this moment to tug on me, bless him, so I extricate my wrist from James' grip. "Excuse me," I say, hoping my voice doesn't give me away. I'm ridiculously aware of James, where he is in relation to me, his body, his movements, all the way back to my car. I can't seem to decide if I want him to touch me or if I'm afraid that he might. _Like an idiot. Really._

I load the dogs up and attempt to bring back some levity. "So, what are your plans for the day?" I ask lightly, leaning back against my car. But James isn't one to be easily swayed.

"Oh," he says in an equally breezy tone, " I thought I might have one of my assistants fetch a call girl - one with curls, and green eyes, I think." He turns to face me, and reaching up, pulls on one of my curls until it springs back to my face.

I can't tell if he's joking or not, but either way, his words have their intended effect, shocking me speechless.

James takes his sunglasses off, and in the sunlight his eyes are that rich golden brown that I could stare at forever. “Do you think that means you’re not special? It’s just the opposite - and I’ll prove it to you,” he says in his seductively soft Irish drawl, and steps in until we’re inches apart.

I feel frozen in place, like I wouldn’t be able to move even if I had a place to go. My heart is pounding again and when James bends his head down I feel his breath on my lips as he speaks. “I never kiss, you see,” he says so quietly I have to strain to hear him, and then he does.

 


	10. Chapter 10

I’ve been kissed on more than a few occasions, and, unless my partner turns out to be a total slob, I would consider it one of my favorite activities. It’s always fun and when it’s really good, it’s the kind of thing that makes your body hum and your panties wet, right?

This was not that kind of kiss.

This was a grab-you-by-your-lapels-and-shake-you, hit-you-in-the-back-of-the-knees-so-you-fall-to-the-ground, smack-you-across-the-face-to-get-your-full-attention kind of kiss. I could no more have broken it off than I could have stopped breathing merely by willing it so. In an instant, when my lips opened to James and I felt the warmth of his tongue against mine, this touch become the only, the most necessary thing I could imagine, and of which I could not get enough.

Within moments we surge from the soft, exploratory brush of his lips to the whole length of his body pressed against mine, my fingers digging into his shoulders, wanting more of this, more of him… _give it to me_ …and his answering insistence, his hand on my hip pulling me against him, his other hand gripping the back of my neck almost painfully. A line of liquid electricity runs down my limbs, pooling in my groin, and the hunger of his mouth consumes me, drawing me further and further into him.

I’m losing myself in this, we both are, all boundaries dissolving between us. Suddenly he nearly shoves me away from him, and we both stand, blinking and overwhelmed. I feel suddenly faint, like the air has been pulled out of my lungs.

My only consolation is that it’s obvious James is as surprised as I am, but he’s much quicker to regain his composure. He presses one arm to his forehead, turns away from me for a moment, and when he turns back, his calm and aloof exterior is in place. “Well, well, well… Isn’t that an interesting development?”

"Jesus Christ, James," I sputter, but I can’t think of any useful words to string together. I’m caught in between feeling bereft at the thing I desire being ripped away from me and being so shocked at the strength of that desire that I want to run. Instead I stand with my hand to my mouth, watching James as he pulls himself together.

"So, Anaïs Nielsen…" and he gives me an absolutely mischievous smile, "…put your mind at ease. Consider your problem solved, and consider yourself quite memorable. Have a lovely day, my dear." The insufferably smug bastard puts on his sunglasses, smiles again, and walks off to his waiting car and driver.

 _Well, for fuck’s sake, don’t just stand there like an idiot._ Shaking my head, I climb in my car to take the dogs home, but before I pull away, I have a sudden thought, and I dial a familiar number.

"Richard? It’s Anaïs. Listen, I have a job for you. Forget about the Carlton files. I need a background… Have you got a pen? I need all the info you can dig up. Yeah - Moriarty. Let me spell it for you…"

***

"Would ya get a load of that?" Tom, a corn-fed boy from the fly-over states, wouldn’t dream of commenting if James were in the car, but the driver figures he can joke around with Sebastian, who has a wicked sense of humor. He’ll get a kick out of his employer’s antics today, Tom thinks to himself as he watches. "Can’t say I’ve seen THAT before," he says in his Midwestern twang, nodding at the front window.

Seb puts down the file he’s studying and leans forward from the backseat. For a moment, he actually can’t comprehend what he’s seeing through the windscreen. Was James - was he actually - he’s KISSING her, HE’S ACTUALLY FUCKING KISSING HER, that totally ordinary, not-even-all-that-gorgeous, that fucking woman that James has been talking about all the time, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

Sebastian doesn’t even realize he’s said this out loud until he glances at the driver, who had to fucking bring it to his attention, Jesus, did he think it was FUNNY?

Tom is frozen in place, he’s never seen Sebastian angry before and he resolves to never, ever speak aloud while he’s on duty again, no matter who’s in the backseat. And as Tom watches, unmoving, he sees James put on his sunglasses and walk purposefully back to the car with the smile of a man who’s very pleased with the world. The driver actually cringes when James knocks on the back window, but per his duty, he rolls it down.

"Tiger," James calls to Sebastian without bothering to bend down, "C’mon, I feel like a run. I’m wound up, I need to run it off."

Tom glances in the rearview mirror, he can’t help it, and when he sees the murderous expression on Seb’s face he’s doubly resolved to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

"Tiger! Come on, let’s go!" James says impatiently, and as Tom watches, Seb manages a remarkable transformation: All of the emotion is utterly wiped from his face, and his voice is steady as he says, "Yes, Boss," and climbs from the car.

James smiles up at him, feeling magnanimous. “Don’t set a pace I can’t keep with your long legs, Tiger. I’m in too good of a mood to get mad at you.”

"Wish I could say the same, Boss," Seb says, and sprints ahead, smiling to himself as he hears James cursing behind him


	11. Chapter 11

I don’t hear from James over the next two days and I alternate between relief and annoyance. Dell calls to let me know she’s found a long-term option for my injured horse to recover, and there’s no scary calls from editors or attorneys, so I figure this is about as stress-free as my life gets these days.

I’m taking advantage of this by getting in a training session at my show barn. I have to believe that my little problem with Carlton has, in fact, been taken care of by James or I’ll be cutting way back on training - it’s not an inexpensive hobby, competing in what we call Combined Training, which combines the disciplines of cross-country jumping and dressage, a kind of choreographed gymnastic exercise for horses. It takes a lot of work and a lot of lessons, and as with most things in life, if you want the best you pay through the nose.

My article on Carlton paid, like most freelance work, on publication, so that’s basically the whole of this month’s bills I won’t be earning out-of-the blue. Luckily my horses who ARE racing have done well, so they can cover for me, but that can change at any time. I’ve got to focus on getting my next piece written and out-the-door. It hasn’t sold yet, so I really need to stop thinking about this whole last week and focus on my priorities - job, horses, dogs. That’s my life and I’m happy with that. Right?

I’m taking my show horse - a brave, if not super-talented, quarter-horse - around the ring on a low-key jump course, just to get my equilibrium back. In truth, most of the training at this point is for my benefit; we don’t compete at a level where my horse is challenged, but I’m just a dumb talking monkey, so I need the refreshers regularly, especially when I miss a week. I’m feeling pretty pleased - no errors, no horribly misjudged strides - when I come to the bounce right beside the stands where visitors can watch the ring. It’s an in-and-out jump with no strides between the rails, so when you go in, you have to go in right, or you’re kinda screwed.

We’re just setting up at a slow canter when something catches my eye in the stands, and, distracted, I glance over. _James._ Wait - James? Here? It only takes a minute for my timing to unravel and my horse, realizing I’m apparently no longer taking the lead, takes matters into his own hands. We make it over, no thanks to me, and I’m guessing I look about as graceful as I am useful - like a sack of potatoes on his back. Good grief. Patting him gratefully, I slowly walk him around the ring for a cool-down, although it’s been no great effort and he’s barely broken a sweat.

At the viewing stands I rein in and look up at James, who’s sitting just above us, looking chic and polished in a closely tailored grey suit. “What,” I ask crossly, “in the fuck are you doing here?”

James shakes his head. “Tsk, tsk - Such language. Really.” His voice is teasing.

"I’m not a lady, in case you’re trying to imply something. Am I just supposed to get used to the idea that you know everything about me? Like I’m not bothered at all?" How in the hell did he find out where I train?

"Well, love, if that would curtail your cursing at me then I’d have to suggest it." He’s grinning now and I want to give in to it, his amusement, but - he’s just too much for me. I have to keep some modicum of self-preservation or I’m doomed.

My thoughts must be written across my face, because James says, “Don’t be cross, I’ll just be asking you to have lunch with me.”

Dammit, his voice is so melodic. I can’t keep looking at him, it’s too distracting. I turn my horse to leave. “I guess I don’t need to tell you where I’m headed, since you probably already know,” I say over my shoulder as we trot away.

"Bit of a smartarse, aren’t you?" James walks up to where I’m grooming my horse. ‘He’s quite nice-looking, What’s his name?" he adds with a nod.

It’s a lure, but like all horse people, I can’t resist a compliment to my horse. “Gladstone. Yes, he’s sexy. Nice legs and a great ass.” I laugh. “Well, of course, he’s a quarter-horse.”

James gives him a pat on the neck and turns to me. “Will you be coming to lunch, then?” His voice is soft, and seemingly sincere.

I look at him over Gladstone’s back appraisingly. He has an odd half-smile, like he’s hoping one thing but thinking another. He has something up his sleeve, I’m sure of it, but he’s not giving any clues.

I put my tack and helmet away without speaking, and untie Gladstone. James falls into step with me as I lead my horse out to his pasture. With the horse between us I find it easier to speak. “James…” I’m quiet so long I actually let Gladstone go and turn back before I can finish, but bless him, James doesn’t interrupt. “You’re completely intimidating. I just - it’s too much for me, I have this very normal life and…” My voice trails off.

James licks his lips, and I see he’s suppressing a smile. When he speaks, it’s in a stage whisper.

“Does that mean you don’t eat?” he asks with mock concern.


	12. Chapter 12

I want to punch him, I really, really do. But no matter how malevolent a look I shoot at James, he remains unperturbed, even amused. He raises his eyebrows at me. “It’s not healthy, not eating - you might want to look into that.”

I am shaking my head at him before he even finishes. “You are such a bastard, do you know that?” I say, but I’m already smiling. I don’t know what it is, he just has a way about him, and when our eyes meet, we both start giggling, until we’re both actually snorting with laughter.

"You - are - a - SHIT," I say between breaths, and that only makes James laugh harder. I’m actually wiping tears away by the time our laughter is spent, and when I look up, he is smiling at me with genuine affection.

"C’mon, it’s just lunch, I’m not Hannibal," he says in mock horror, and gestures me to the town car waiting for him.

It’s a short ride to the Mexican restaurant James has chosen, but I’m uncomfortably aware of his presence the entire ride. I can smell him and it’s warm and musky and appealing, a smell that makes me want to tuck my nose into his neck. _Stop it,_ I command myself, as if that really ever works.

By the time we pull up to the curb and James reaches for my hand to help me out, my relaxation from our mutual laughing fit has expired. Seriously, what am I doing with this man? Getting out of the backseat of a chauffeured car? It’s absurd, ridiculous. I don’t even know him.

Whatever weird charisma James has, it extends to everyday people, because the host seats us ahead of others at a prime table on the deck. James orders a margarita for me before I can even speak, and when I open my mouth to protest, only says, “Don’t argue just to argue. Tell me it doesn’t sound perfect right now.”

Bastard. Is he always going to be right? It’s infuriating. "Thank you," I say as gracefully as I can manage, "It’s lovely having someone so thoughtful to order for me." I’m being completely sarcastic, but there’s an element of truth to it. I choose a tone I hope bridges both points of view.

James snickers, but says nothing to disagree. Instead, he shifts gears abruptly. Glancing at his watch, he asks, “Do you have a pad of paper and a pen? You’re going to get two phone calls in the next few minutes, you’ll probably want to take notes.”

Frowning, I reach for my bag and pull out a notebook and pen. “Is it about Carlton?” I ask, worried.

James waves my question away. “No, no, that was easy.”

"But - what did you do? I mean - how did you -" This is all moving too fast for me.

"My associate had a conversation with him." He shrugs. "Easy-peasy."

The server sets down our drinks, and James raises his glass. “To winning,” he says, and smiles at me as we toast. “Isn’t that what we toasted to last? I like it.”

My phone rings. Pulling it out of my bag, I check the number. It’s Rob, my attorney. “Hello?”

"This is - this is really unprecedented," Rob says in a rush, without bothering to introduce himself. "They’ve completely dropped the charges." He sounds baffled, but enthused. "I mean, it’s on the condition of no publication, but I hardly thought that was a concern so…"

"That’s - that’s great," I say quickly, my mind spinning. Wait… wait a minute - "Hey, that’s really great, Rob, thank you, you did a great job. Now I need you to call them back and instruct them to reimburse me. I don’t give a shit if it doesn’t go to publication, but I did my work, and they owe me." I glance up, and James is nodding in approval. " Tell them if they don’t reimburse me for my publication fee I’ll counter-sue for defamation of character."

"Are you sure?" Rob asks, but he’s bright, and he knows I’m right. They’ve conceded, and now the advantage is ours to press.

"Absolutely. Go get ‘em, tiger," I say grinning.

"Yeah, you got it. Chat at you later."

I hang up, and take a long drink of my margarita. What a huge relief…

James is smiling at me conspiratorially. “Good. ..very good. You saw the line to take straightaway. I’m pleased,” he says, and nods, apparently to himself.

I’m still trying to figure out what he means by that when the phone rings again. It’s Richard, my private investigator. Is this the second call he meant? Surely not… he couldn’t have known about my call to him… I look up at James, but he keeps a straight face and just shrugs, nodding at my ringing phone. That queer feeling at the nape of my neck is back. I hesitate, just for a minute, and then answer.

"Richard?"

 


	13. Chapter 13

"Richard?" I ask again, and in a moment, after a longish pause, hear the voice of my private investigator, Richard Brook.

"Oh, um - er - Anaïs, yeah -" He sounds shaky, really strange, but he plunges on. "So, yes, that background you requested."

I glance up at James only to see that he’s ordering for both of us with our server. His eyes meet mine and then flick away. Hmm. This is awkward.

"Yeah, Richard, did you find anything interesting?"

"Uh, well, here’s the PC version, if you will," he says, and I jot down notes as he speaks: Consulting firm, well-regarded, arts donor, board of directors at finance firm, board of directors at museum, etc., etc..

"All the kinds of things one would expect," Richard continues, “but when I tried to get any further - you know, personal stuff - I hit a wall. I thought I’d try a few more sources and give it another day or two before I called you back…" his voice trails off.

"But...?"

"Uh, well, there's a man here now," he says, his words tumbling together, "There's a man standing here with a file labeled 'James Moriarty' and he says after I read it he has to take it back, um, so, I've - I've been flipping through it and, ah - yeah, he's a major player, Anaïs, a major player, do you get me?"

I frown. "What do you mean, player?" I glance up at James, but he's busy texting on his phone.

"There's nothing here with any evidence, of course."

"Evidence of what, Richard, would you get to the point?" It's not like him to be so scattered and I have an odd feeling that I'm not going to like what he says next.

Silence. And then - "...Of being a criminal on an international scale."

I drop my pen, and it bounces off my notebook and clatters onto the flagstones. "I'm sorry - What?"

I reach for the pen hastily, suddenly not wanting to meet James' eyes. I keep my own on the notepad in my lap as Richard explains.

"Okay, you know how in the 50's we used to have the Mafia, we had Godfathers? That shit doesn't exist anymore. What we've got now - you might call them just - independent businessmen. WIth...ah...far-reaching influence."

"Richard -" I take a breath and willfully lower my voice, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"These - businessmen - they work both inside and outside the law, you know? To shape events. They have vast resources, and even more influence. They're the ones running things, just, you know - in the background. I don't think - do I need to say more?"

"How vast?"

"Vast."

"How vast?" I demand again.

I hear him sigh, and the words come in a rush. "Vast like destabilizing markets and organizing regime changes."

"In other countries?" The last word comes out in a squeak.

"Foreign and domestic, yeah. Yeah, listen - I really don't want to read any more of this. I'm not kidding, I don't - I don't - I just want to give the file back, okay? Listen, I gotta go."

"Send me a bill, Ritchie, thank you -"

But he's already hung up.

Very, very carefully, I set down my notepad and phone, and reach my hand out to pick up my drink. It feels a bit like the day is technicolor bright but simultaneously in slow-motion. I take a deep, fortifying slug of the margarita to clear my brain before looking up to meet James’ gaze.

"You sent the file," I state matter-of-factly.

James tilts his head and assesses me. “Yes.”

I force myself to stare right back. “Why?”

"You should always trust your gut feelings, Anaïs." His smile is proprietary, like an instructor with a favored pupil.

"You mean when I said you were scary." Now it’s my turn to look over his face, searching for a clue as to the meaning of this little game. But I find nothing.

He nods, watching me. “Yes.”

"Jesus, James," I blurt out, "I am out of my league here. What is the point of all this?"

 


	14. Chapter 14

James laughs, and leans back in his chair, sipping his margarita.

"I love your honesty, it’s so refreshing. So many people go through life trying to impress but they just look desperate."  He pauses, as if to consider something that’s just occurred to him. "You might think I arranged this to impress you. Well," he shrugs, "maybe just a little bit. But really, my dear, it was my way of being honest with you. To return the favor, as it were."  He smiles now, half endearment, half challenge.

Our food arrives with impeccable timing. Surprisingly, I’m ravenous. I suppose the workout of riding trumps the shock of finding your new date arranges bloody political coups any day. _Oh, shut up, Anaïs!_

We eat in silence, while I consider what’s been said. “This is very good,” I say finally, nodding towards the plate of fish tacos. “At least I can trust you to order for me. I suppose that’s a start.”

James narrows his eyes at my backhanded compliment, but says nothing.

I set down my silverware and carefully fold my napkin. When our plates have been cleared, I speak slowly, willing my voice into a low, relaxed pitch. “James, I haven’t known you very long. But - I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character. And so, I’m calling - bullshit.”

James grins, delighted. “Are you calling me out, then?” he says in his lovely Irish lilt.

I nod. “I am.”

"And what part, exactly, are you finding to be untrue, love?"

"The part where you pretend you did all of this for little old me."

James furrows his brow. “Oh, no, you can do better than that, Anaïs. Think.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have to think. I don’t believe for one minute that was your only motivation. You’re a big-picture thinker, you’d never waste your time with that kind of elaborate charade just to impress a woman. Particularly if you are who you say you are. So tell me the rest. Why did you bother?”

James leans forward now, and takes my hand. A thrill runs up my spine at his touch, and I struggle to conceal it. As James brings my hand to his lips, it’s all I can do not to make some small sound aloud. He smiles at me, that enormously seductive smile. “I like your mind,” he almost purrs. “I like things that are well-made.”

Jesus. A girl could get lost in those dark eyes. Gently, he places my hand back on the table, but he doesn’t take his eyes off mine. I cave first, although I hate myself for showing weakness; it’s just too intense, that stare, and I have to look away.

James leans back, satisfied. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, my dear. One always tends to believe something with more certainty when told by a disinterested party, don’t you agree?” he says, rhetorically. “It wouldn’t have had nearly the same effect if I’d simply announced my occupation over cocktails.” He smiles easily, amused at the thought.

I tap my fingers on the table. “And?”

"And…" he looks up at the sky, still smiling, and then, seemingly having made a decision, brings his gaze down to me. "And you picked rather a good investigator, my dear, and once he gets over his fright I think he’ll be very useful in expanding my business here in the western states."

"Oh, really?" This is utterly absurd. What am I even DOING here with this man?

"Oh, yes," he says smoothly, "My name isn’t yet as well-known here as I’d like. But now Mr. Brook has my number, and the next time someone needs something…delicate…done, he’ll think of me."

I don’t know whether to laugh or be angry at his sheer audacity. I tap my fingers again, annoyed at being swept up into this little game. “That’s great, so glad I could give you a good referral,” I say with sarcasm. “Would you call for the bill, please?”

James motions for the check without ever taking his eyes off me, and unbelievably, it arrives within moments. It’s not until I see him hand his black AmEx card to the server that the penny actually drops. Dear fucking God, everything that Richard said was true. It really was, wasn’t it? I’m having lunch with a man who does God-knows-what to people for profit. This is not a joke. This is real. Suddenly I’m not so much annoyed as slightly ill.

 


	15. Chapter 15

_This is real. This is not a joke._

When I look up at James, he's watching me with an odd mix of curiosity and concern. He looks astonishingly beautiful when he's serious, like now - all full lips and pale skin and dark eyes. We stand up to leave and I just follow, my mind still trying to grasp things and fairly stuttering in comprehension.

In the backseat, I turn to James, who's been staring out the window. "I'm sorry I've been so rude," I say in a low voice. He looks at me, faintly surprised, as I continue. "I haven't thanked you yet, for taking care of my problem. I would have been -" I swallow, looking for the right words, " - It would have been - bad," I finish lamely. "Very bad. So thank you, thank you very much. Oh! And lunch, thank you for lunch."

I try a small smile, and to my surprise, it sticks. It's baffling, how the human mind can hold opposing thoughts in tandem. I'm certainly doing a brilliant job of it at the moment, because even as I'm horrified by the implications of our conversation, I'm simultaneously grateful for his ability to use his influence on my behalf. I'm also fighting the urge to press my leg against his, or place my hand in his lap, because chemistry knows no master - certainly not me - and it's apparently indifferent to context, as well. Good lord.

It must be written all over my face, this confusion and my desire, because James picks up my hand again, and this time kisses my palm. "As I said, it was my pleasure. You're not in my debt, my dear. You're free to do as you like. And - " He places my hand on his chest, "I did want to impress you, you know. It wasn't just business."

The soft brush of his lips across my palm and the feel of his heartbeat under my hand is too much. Before my rational mind has a chance to weigh in, I reach to cup the back of his head and urge him forward. As I lean in to kiss those full lips, slowly, tenderly, resting my lips against his, he opens his mouth to me and the sound of my blood suddenly pounds in my ears.

I feel him yield to my kiss, his body drawn to mine, and an elemental hunger rushes over me. I can quite literally feel the pulse behind my eyes and when I take his lower lip between my teeth I have to will myself to be gentle, to not rip and bite until he bleeds.

I start to pull away, disturbed, but he catches me, his arm around my back, and he whispers thickly, "No." His hand against the back of my head presses my lips against his, and he asks me, wordlessly, to give in to whatever mad impulse has overtaken us, and I do.

I pull his head back by his hair, almost ruthlessly, and feel his hands against me, urging me on as I kiss him with a kind of fury, consuming everything he can give me in turn as he cedes control. The urge to mark him, to hurt him, is overwhelming, and when I taste the blood of his lower lip I realize I've acted upon it, and I'm afraid. With hands and lips he brings me back to him, again offering himself to me, and I fall upon him in a kind of lust that runs red behind my eyes.

How to describe it?

James is every deep, dark impulse you've never succumbed to, every hunger you sought to censure, all the sins you never committed, and every bit of larceny in your heart - he is all of that, and all of the thoughts with no words, as well. He is maddeningly, infinitely desirable, because those appetites are never sated.

Even a kiss - just a simple kiss - was like dropping a coin into a well and waiting to hear the splash, only to realize you'd drastically underestimated the depth.

And with that thought, I grab onto whatever bit of rationality I have left and let go of him, confounded and more confused than ever.

"That - that was not -" I back away from him, breathless. "I should not have done that. I - I'm sorry."


	16. Chapter 16

We've arrived back at the training center and I have no idea how long we've been here. If James is any indication of how I look, I'm a right mess - his hair is askew, lips puffy and bleeding, and eyes still slightly glazed over with lust. The skin around my mouth feels raw from his stubble, and I'm sure I look every bit as drunk with desire. It's all I can do to collect my bag, smoothing down my hair as I turn to go.

"Listen -" James grabs my wrist, "I'm not sure we've seen the end of this." I actually blush, and seeing my expression, he laughs softly. "Not that - although that too, more than likely - no, about Carlton."

My brain does not want to catch up. "Are you serious?"

He nods, combing his hair back with his fingers. "I really am. I think you stumbled on to something bigger than you realize. I have people looking into it but in the meantime - I'd feel better if you didn't go anywhere alone."

"What?" I say in bewilderment. It's been a day of too much.

James sighs. "I have to go out of town for a few days, but if you're going anywhere, let my driver take you."

"I don't need a driver." _Dear god, this day is verging on the ridiculous._

"Anaïs, I'm very serious. You do almost everything alone - go to the races, to the barn, here to train, walk the dogs on the Parkway -"

"Yes," I interrupt, "but nobody cares what I do." I pull my wrist out of his grasp.

"You're a creature of habit, love." He gestures to the training center. "It's very easy to know where you'll be. I did."

I open my mouth and just as quickly shut it. There's no arguing that with a man who has found me every time he wanted to see me.

"Are you going anywhere else this week?" he asks quietly.

I'm torn between answering and rebelling, but the look on his face stops me from being so immature, and I shrug. "I'm seeing a DJ at Mix on Friday, but I'm sure I'll meet up with friends there. And I'm not driving," I add hastily.

"Let my driver take you."

"I don't need a driver, James." What I need is to feel in control of myself again. "Really. I just - I'm fine. I really am. I should go."

"You're a very stubborn woman, do you know that?"

God, I love his voice. It does odd things to my body when I least expect it. I can feel my nipples crinkling in appreciation, and I hastily turn away before I humiliate myself by blushing again.

"Thank you again for lunch," I say over my shoulder, and clamber out of the car before I can change my mind.


	17. Chapter 17

Stubborn I might be, but I know when I'm outgunned. The town car has followed me from the gated road of my condo, down the block, across a main thoroughfare, and sits just down from the bus stop where I wait impatiently.

I ignore it.

I get on a crosstown bus, and the person next to me smells like vomit. The guy across the aisle is eye-fucking me and giving me the heebie-jeebies. A passenger with innumerable packages drops a box on my foot, and doesn't even apologize.

Abruptly, I get up and exit at the nearest stop. I'd rather just walk, it's far but not impossible. Maybe 20 blocks? I'm strolling along, thinking about how bizarre my life has become over the last few weeks, when the black town car pulls to the curb just ahead of me. I stop abruptly.

Oh, fine. If the shoe fits, and all that - who knows how often in my life I'll actually be chauffeured somewhere, not to mention I really don't want to find out if these shoes cause blisters...yeah yeah yeah, I can rationalize anything...

I'm both pleased and disappointed there's no one in the backseat, which only makes me realize that this thing with James is getting out of control. I've been very pointedly staying uninvolved with anyone for the last year, keeping friends at a distance and keeping my own company. I probably see my racehorse and show trainers more than anyone else, and I'm fine with that. There are trade-offs in life and mine is to keep myself sane.

So why am I sitting in a car being ferried to a club without even giving an address? It's exactly the opposite of sane. And what the fuck was that kiss about? It was days ago but I can still feel the pounding of his heart under my hand when I leaned to kiss him, and the strangely dark intimacy of our embrace. Suddenly I'm thrilled to be going dancing tonight - I'm desperate to be in my body, be sweaty and physical, with no repercussions.

Once I'm in the club I leave my thoughts and my anxiety behind - this is my space, all mine. And if someone watches me, it just blends in with the experience, being both an exhibitionist and a voyeur on the dance floor. It's my outlet and I let go; the music grabs me and takes me up and up, and I just follow it. No thought of who I should be, no thought of who or what surrounds me. It's two hours of bliss, so simple.

 

****

 

I'm no more than ten feet outside the backdoor of the club when he jumps me. I see him out of the corner of my eye and only have a moment to register that I've never seen him before when my reflexes kick in, and I'm already whirling away when he grabs me, so I'm not immobilized. I take a deep breath to scream but as he wraps an arm around my neck, I'm suddenly a lot more concerned with the pressure on my carotid artery. I'm pretty sure passing out would not be in my best interest.

I try to aim for a knee with my foot and hear a satisfying curse as I connect, but then see he's not alone. Two more men are rapidly on me, one grabbing for my arms while the other clamps a hand over my mouth. I am so fucked. Why didn't I listen to James? Damn my stubborn pride to hell - _stupid girl, so stupid_ -

I try to sink down, out of their grasp, but I'm no match for three men, no matter how infuriated I am, how desperate. What the fuck do they want with me? To teach me a lesson? Mug me? Fuck me? I suppose the possibilities are endless; I just know I don't want them to move me away from the club. It's an industrial area and I have no mind to be found in a dumpster tomorrow.

I sink with all my weight backwards - motherfuckers are going to have to carry me, and gravity is my friend - and I hear one say, "Stupid bitch!" and someone jabs me painfully in the solar plexus, but the hand on my mouth prevents air from escaping my lungs. My heels are scrabbling out from under me, and then, just as suddenly, I am free and I can't right myself in time. I lurch backwards and jam my wrist painfully against the asphalt as I try to break my fall. A hand hits against the side of my head as an arm is snapped back, but it only glances off, and then it's just me, laying on the pavement in shock.


	18. Chapter 18

I know I’m in shock because I can’t seem to make sense of what I’m seeing. I just watch, my raw wrist to my mouth, as my three assailants are beaten to a pulp by four very fierce, very well-trained, very efficient men I’ve also never seen before. It’s all just a tangle of bodies and groans and motion and blood.

"Anaïs -" James reaches down to grab my hands, his voice urgent as he pulls me to my feet. I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my life. He grabs my chin and quickly looks over my face, then my body, looking for injuries. "Are you okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - they were slow, they didn’t know you’d leave by the backdoor -"

At the sight of my wrist, bruised and swelling, raw and bleeding from my fall, his face darkens, and all of a sudden I see what James is like when he's angry. Before I can even catch a breath, he whips around and strides up to the man who jumped me first, now on his knees. Without warning James pulls a pistol from inside his jacket and presses it to the man's temple. I almost choke with fear and the saliva in my mouth from being able to take full breaths.

James is still, his face like a terrible angel, somehow both solemn and absolutely furious. I’m so terrified I can’t even speak.

"You listen to me, you foolish, foolish man," he spits, "When I let you up, you take care of your friends here, and you tell your employer James Moriarty sends his regards." His voice is so flat, it’s eerie. The man licks his lips and makes a sound, but it’s not a word. James looks to his assistant and nods at the kneeling man. "Hold him," he says simply.

James moves swiftly but without hurrying to the second assailant, who’s been watching this exchange through a rapidly thickening brow. His expression says he’s seeing things no man is designed to see - and just as quickly as I can slap my hand to my mouth to stifle a scream, James strides up to him, puts the gun to the man’s temple, and fires.

Brain matter sprays the third assailant, who is now beyond terror, his mouth moving like a fish drowning in the air. A gob of it, greyish pink and bloody, sticks to his cheek. There’s a growing wet circle at the crotch of his jeans and I find myself wondering why that detail, of all others, stands out in my mind. James never blinks, never hesitates, just repeats the execution with that cold, composed countenance, only hesitating briefly to watch the body slump to the pavement when it’s released.

James turns back to the first man, his voice still preternaturally calm. “You tell your employer that I don’t like to get my hands dirty, but if he ever threatens something of mine again, I’ll be the first to pay a visit. You remember the name?” The man nods, wordlessly.

James hands off his pistol to his enforcer and turns, reaching out a hand to me. “We need to leave,” he says softly, and I grab his hand and follow him to his car, speechless. When we’ve pulled away from the curb and are safely in traffic headed crosstown, James turns to me and takes my chin in his hand. He looks over my face, finally settling on my eyes. His are dark and inscrutable, but when he speaks, his voice is gentle.

"I’m sorry," he says finally, "I’m not usually so…direct."

I look at his beautiful face, so solicitous, and feel the painful pricking of tears at my eyes. James frowns. “Oh - oh, come here.” I’m suddenly gathered in his arms with my face in his neck, and he’s murmuring, “It’s alright, you’re alright.”

Weirdly, I focus on his scent. He smells clean and masculine, no cologne, just a warm, sandalwood - probably very expensive - soap with his natural, slightly spicy scent. I want to burrow my head into his neck, and what the fuck, I’ve just become a witness to a double-homicide, why the hell not? So I indulge myself in James, in the smooth, soft skin of his neck, and find myself rubbing my nose and closed lips along the muscle that meets his collarbone at the edge of his shirt. He smells so…inviting…

His hand is buried in my hair at the nape of my neck and he’s murmuring words under his breath that I can’t identify, but I can feel his response as his body arches to mine. I tilt my head up to meet his lips and it’s fuse to powder, just like the first time - jumping suddenly and without warning from tender to tumultuous, the need to feel each other harder, deeper, overcoming all thoughts of giving comfort.

This time, though, I let my hands go where they like, pulling his shirt untucked, running my hands over the sweet skin of his chest. He lets go of my hair to grab me by the shoulders so I’m sprawled against him, and reaches a hand down my shirt to pinch my nipples painfully, delightfully. It’s the perfect pain to clear my head, and make me respond in kind; when I do, James bucks his hips against me involuntarily, and pulls me down onto his groin. Just the feel of his hard length against me, even through our clothes, sends a thrill through my whole body, and I gasp with pleasure.

In whatever odd part of my brain where thinking still exists, I realize we’re experiencing the age-old response to death - sex. Sex equals life, sex equals being alive, and any honest soldier will tell you an erection appears before the dead have gasped their last breath. So here we are, absolutely on fire with lust. I understand it perfectly, but this, here, this isn’t - I try to shake my head to clear it, but every nerve tells me to lose myself in James and in my senses.

The car pulls up to the hotel, the bright lights reminding us both of the outside world. I sit up first, trying to grasp on to anything that will keep me from losing myself completely, and James follows, both of us literally panting. _Good god_.

"James," I say sotto voce,"this is all just absurd." But I’m following docilely, up the elevator, up up up to the top floor, down the hall - he pulls me into what must be a penthouse suite.

 


	19. Chapter 19

The room seems huge, all windows and night sky. The lights of the city twinkle and tremble, shuddering in an optical illusion. I find myself utterly entranced, standing with hands against the glass of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights are so beguiling from here, I almost forget to be afraid.

"Anaïs." James pulls me back to myself, himself.

"Yeah." I'm so lost.

I can hear him speaking, standing over my shoulder, but the lights are twinkling, so mesmerizing...

"Listen, love, when the adrenaline wears off you're going to be very hungry. Take off your clothes."

"What?" I turn abruptly and jerk back from him, my body flush against the glass of the window.

"Easy," he says softly, reaching out to me slowly. "Easy, there. Not for me, love. I need you to strip so I can get you in the shower. I have a robe here."

I stare at him. It's so bizarre seeing James like this - so gentle, so thoughtful - but as I stare at him I realize it's no act. No...it's real. So real. Jesus. I should start doing Ecstasy again, that can't be any stranger than this... _Anaïs, what are you doing? You're okay, hey...you're okay now._

James speaks to me like a child, softly, slowly. "C'mon, love." Taking me by the hand, he pulls me down the hall to the bathroom. The shower is huge, green marble, with multiple shower heads. James turns on the water, and looks at me. I'm sure I'm staring at him, staring through him. He moves to me, kisses my cheek, and speaks softly, "Baby, hey-"

I look at him, trying to focus.

"Is this your first time?" he asks quietly, his eyes on my face.

My first time? _Like sex,_ I think irreverently. _No - not like sex at all._ I nod, and tears come again. "I'm sorry," I whisper, ashamed to be so soft.

James looks stricken. "No - no, baby, I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen. I just wanted to bring you here, to give you this, for you to relax for one night..." His voice trails off. "Hey. Hey..." He reaches out to cup my chin with his hand. "Will you get in the shower?"

Tears are running down my face now, I can't stop it. "Don't-" I swallow, trying to speak clearly. "Don't go."

James nods. "Okay. Okay. I'm right here."

I'm staring at him and without thought I start unbuttoning my pants. There's nothing sexual about it, and when James follows suit, I don't even watch. I just leave my clothes in a heap on the floor and walk under the warm water. James follows.

In the shower the water runs over me like absolution. _So I didn't listen, I didn't listen, I should have listened, I really should have listened - but THIS IS NOT MY FAULT. God!_ I take a deep breath, finally able to let myself feel. _This is not my fault. Not my fault._ It's a rhythmic thought that settles, finally, in my bones.

When I open my eyes, James is standing directly in front of me, his eyes flicking over my face, assessing. He reaches up and pushes my hair back. "Anaïs..." His eyes are huge in his pale face. "I can see what you're thinking. It wasn't your fault. No. No. Let that go. If you want to place blame, it was mine. I did this, not you."

He speaks slowly and carefully; his voice is so resonant, so soft, like a velvet throw. I love his voice, I would follow it anywhere. I nod, I need to get a grip. But I find myself just staring at him, unable to speak.

"Hey," he says again, and draws me to him. I cry into his neck as the water runs over us, James stroking my wet hair. He's so patient. God. I'm a wreck and he just holds me and murmurs in my ear, soft sounds with no real meaning, but still a trail for me to follow back to myself.

I take a deep breath. Finally - finally the tears are done. "Okay -" I turn so James and I are face-to-face. "We're both naked and I'm not ready to be naked with you so I'm gonna turn my back and you're gonna get out of the shower, okay?"

For a brief moment it looks like James isn't going to be able to contain his laughter, but after shaking his head and pressing his lips together, he nods, and does as I ask.

 


	20. Chapter 20

I spend another minute under the water, willing myself back to a sane frame of mind, and when I step out I’m alone, and, thoughtfully, there’s a fluffy robe for me to don. I walk down the hall to find James dressed the same. He’s standing with his back to me, staring out the windows that hypnotized me just a few minutes ago. When he turns, I see he holds a flute of sparkling wine. He motions for me to sit before a low table looking out on the amazing view.

I stretch, gently, and try out a tentative smile when James hands me a glass of wine. It feels okay, maybe more than okay, and I am relieved. He sits next to me on the thick rug and we gaze out the window together.

"I’ll answer any questions you may have, tell you anything you need to know. But not until after we eat," he says quietly.

I’ve been too spell bound by the view to notice the plates of sushi on the table. James smiles with a shadow of his normally mischievous self present. “I hope you like sushi?’

I nod. “I love it. And I love sparkling wine. So you’re batting 100 thus far.”

He smiles. We’re both trying. I’m absolutely starving - he’s right - and sometime later, after many plates and several glasses, we’re both reclining and feeling human again.

"I don’t want to talk about it right now," I say, in the quiet. It’s too precious, these moments of peace.

"Yeah, okay. That’s fine," James says, but there’s a question in his voice.

"But I want you to promise that when I want to talk about it you will." I look over at James and see him struggling, briefly, with his emotions - _Who the fuck is she to tell me what to do?_ \- but he wrestles them into compliance and agrees.

Finally James pours the last of the bottle - or is it our second - into our glasses and we sit in front of the windows. “Don’t ask me to be sorry, Anaïs,” he says quietly, “or to have regrets.”

"No," I agree, thoughtfully, but I don’t say more.

"I had a very different idea of this night," he says, shaking his head. "I just - would you -" he laughs softly now, at his own inability to finish a sentence. "Would you stay tonight?"

I'm sure my eyebrows have reached the ceiling. "I'm not - I don't -"

"No," he interrupts hastily, "No, just to sleep. My god, Anaïs, I wouldn't take advantage of you. I might be a killer but I'm not..." his voice trails off.

Now it's my turn to interrupt. "No, no, I'm so sorry, I just - it's been a very long night, I didn't mean that at all." I turn to look at him. "I don't know what I'm doing right now, really," I say softly.

His face is composed, but there's a faint tic beneath his eye. "Tell me - what do you want, love?"

I search his face for a long moment. The wine has taken effect, and I'm suddenly exhausted. Finally, I smile faintly. "Okay, so get ready for bed and I'll join you."

I look away, feeling suddenly shy, and it's not until I come out from my own bedtime preparations that I look at him directly again. He's leaning against the headboard, eyes closed, all smooth skin and beautiful cheekbones. God, he slays me.

At the sound of me approaching, James opens his eyes and looks me over before turning back the sheets. "Come to bed," he says softly, melodically, and keeps his eyes on mine when I leave the robe on the floor. He reaches his arms to me, and though it should be strange, self-conscious, when he gathers me up and places my head on his chest it feels like I'm home. He places his hand in my hair, and I'm asleep within minutes.


	21. Chapter 21

I wake up smelling James on my pillow, but I’m alone. Rooms feel different when they’re empty. I pause before opening my eyes and review the previous day’s events.

_Jesus Christ. That was real. It was all real._

I sit straight up. The view from the bedroom is just as alluring in the daylight as the living room was the night before. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I need coffee.

I find my clothes from the night before neatly folded and laundered just outside the bathroom. There’s a note on top: _Had to go to SF. There’s a car waiting for you. JM  P.S. You sleep like an angel._

I dress quickly and make my way downstairs, where an unobtrusive man in a suit approaches me.

I’m gun-shy after last night, so I say nothing.  

"Miss Nielsen, my employer asked me to give you this," - he hands me one of James’ business cards - "and to let you know we can pick up your dogs on the way home so you don’t have to make two trips."

I stare at him for a moment, and glance down at the card. _Dinner? - JM_ is written on the back.

So this is legit, but - how does James know about the dogs at the sitter? Is he having me followed? I sigh.

"Yes, thank you. But can we - do you know the nearest Starbucks? I need coffee."

He nods as I follow him to the car. “Certainly, miss.”

He opens the door to the back seat, and I slide in. Apparently this is my life now.

_Jesus Christ._

The whole week has been so bizarre that once I am home with the dogs in a familiar, safe space, it all takes on a sense of unreality. I head to my laptop and search local news.

No bodies. No murders. Not even an altercation.

On the one hand I think - how does this happen? And on the other hand - how often does this happen? I mean, what’s going on that we never hear about?

And then there’s James telling the man their mistake was threatening “something of mine.” Is that how James feels about me? That’s - flattering and frightening and intriguing, all at once.

I suddenly remember the message on his card. Pulling out my phone I text: _RE: DINNER THANKS BUT STAYING IN TONIGHT_

It’s a minute or less for his reply: _VERY GOOD, I’LL BRING THAI. 7 PM?_

I shake my head. Such a bastard. After a long moment, I reply: _CHEEKY. AS LONG AS YOU HAVE VERY LOW EXPECTATIONS, I ACCEPT._

I can almost hear James’ voice in his text: _HIGH STANDARDS, LOW EXPECTATIONS. GOT IT. SEE YOU THEN._

I laugh and put down the phone. James is so damn charming, he’s probably used to getting his way basically all of the time.

A vision of James walking up to the man on his knees and shooting him point blank pops into my head, and I stop laughing abruptly. What am I thinking? I’m giggling over a dinner date with a murderer, and not just that, a criminal who’s responsible for how many more? It’s a sobering, distressing thought.

As charming as he may be, dating a man responsible for such things, never mind bloody coups and market collapses, is not in my game plan.

But date or not, I intend to ask all the questions tonight that have been rolling around in my head since Richard called me. Until then, I'm shelving the subject of James for the day.

That’s the plan, anyway.


	22. Chapter 22

I switch gears, browsing now to check race results and catch up on racing news. I see that CaviarNCigarettes has, unsurprisingly, won the Pacing Invitational - that should make Dell happy - and that a notable pacing sire has, for some odd reason, been retired here instead of being shipped to New Zealand per the original plan. I wonder idly if he’s firing blanks these days.

An article headline pops out at me, one suggesting that even in this age of technology it’s not impossible to switch horses for a race. Some are campaigning for microchipping, so that the identity of a horse need only be scanned. As if stands now, a race official checks all the tattoos or freeze brands identifying each horse prior to the race. Further down the article, there’s a list of races that have had unlikely winners, and a suggestion that the percentage of winning longshots has gone up, particularly in California.

Interesting. But what are the chances, really?

A sudden memory pops into my head:

> _“Feeling a bit lucky, are we? D’ya have another horse in?”  James pulls out my program._
> 
> _"Yeah, in the 7th. He’s got a good chance, he’s been training like a monster. 5 hole," I add helpfully, looking over his shoulder at the program._
> 
> _James glances up at me, his expression odd and inscrutable. I blink and it’s gone, and he’s smiling at me like maybe I imagined it. I frown. What the hell just happened?_
> 
> _As I’m waiting at the bar - clearly I don’t have the James mojo - I glance out to the tarmac. To my surprise, I see James on his phone, gesturing firmly and angrily. “No, no, we’ll have to wait,” I lip-read before he turns away._

No. No, it CAN’T be. Can it? Was something planned for Race 7? And if so, why was it canceled? I’m wrong, I have to be, it’s just too unlikely. It’s probably just a total coincidence. But really, what was James doing at a random racetrack, anyway?

More questions. Fuck. I really need to work, I have an interview tomorrow and I need to prep. But I find myself loading the dogs in the car and driving to the barn, my escape.

 

****

 

By the time the doorbell rings at 7, I’ve gone over every possible scenario in my mind and willfully shored up my resolve to not date anyone, much less James. _I have a fulfilling life, I do lots of fun things, I’m happy alone, I -_

I open the door. Dammit again. James looks impeccable, as usual, with his perfectly combed hair and immaculately tailored suit. Gah.

He raises his eyebrows. “My, my, Anaïs, did you swallow a bug? You look rather cranky.”

I’m so flustered all I can find to say is, “We’re not dating. Just so you know.”

James laughs, and waves his hand dismissively. “Of course not. We’re past that stage already.” He motions me to step outside, and as I do, still pondering his statement, I see another man standing on the stoop. “I hope you don’t mind, Mason will only be a tick.”

"To do what?"

"Sweep your flat. An uncivilized but necessary precaution."

I’m incredulous. “Are you serious?”

James looks at me pointedly. “About business? Always.” He frowns slightly. “Not sure what further proof you would need to take it seriously, either.”

I’m taken aback, and for a moment I look away, trying to collect my thoughts. “You’re right. I just - none of this seems real to me. I don’t - this isn’t my world, James.” I search his face, hoping he’ll understand.

His face softens, and he opens his arms. “Come here. We haven’t said hello properly.” And intellectual reasoning be damned, I do. He smells delicious, warm and musky and comforting. We stand like that, my face tucked into his neck and his arms around me, for a long moment.

"Don’t you remember what I told you?" His voice is husky. "When you come to me it will be your choice."

 


	23. Chapter 23

_James._

His fingers rest on the nape of my neck and I find myself tracing his jawline with my lips, asking - as he's just said I would - for his kiss. His lips are soft, his kiss tender, exploratory - and potent. James' arm on my lower back keeps me steady; otherwise I'm sure I would simply melt right onto the stairs.

I feel rather than see Mason return. I step back, rattled at how easily I leave behind the day's resolutions.

James smiles knowingly. "Free will. Remember?" he says to me with the raise of an eyebrow, and then turns to his employee.

"It's clean, sir."

James nods. "Thank you, Mason. Would you fetch the wine from the car, and -" he glances at his watch "- pick up dinner in a half hour."

Mason nods, and heads down the path to the curb. I gesture for James to step inside, and fetch a hanger from the closet. "Your jacket?"

James nods appreciatively, and takes off his tie as well. I try not to stare as he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, but I'm instantly transported back to placing my head on his naked chest last night. I press my lips together and look away.

"Your wine, sir." Mason hands James an insulated bag, and takes his leave.

I show James into the kitchen and fetch two wine flutes while he opens a bottle. It's always odd having someone over to your own, personal space for the first time. I feel vaguely self-conscious and as I can hear the dogs whining in their kennels, I ask, "Do you mind?"

"No, by all means - release the hounds," he says over his shoulder.

Moffat and Gatiss are beside themselves at having company, and James greets them effusively. Surely he can't be a psychopath, he seems to genuinely like animals. _That's some brilliant rationale you've got there, missy._

I pull myself out of my inane thoughts as James hands me a glass. "So my dear," he says, raising his, "to our health." We clink glasses and take a sip, then I lead him into the living room.

He takes a seat on the couch and leans back, looking remarkably at ease. "And speaking of health, love, how is your wrist?"

"It's sore, definitely bruised. But not as bad as it could have been. It will heal."

He nods. "I'm glad to hear it. I've learned a bit about your lads. I know who their boss is, and I know what they were meant to do."

"And?" I take a seat on the edge of the couch, but I'm too restless to relax.

James pauses, and then speaks quietly. "They meant to make an example out of you." When I don't speak, he continues. "They certainly were going to abduct you & beat you, and it's my guess - an educated guess - they would have raped you as well."

The words are chilling. I stand up, and pace between the windows, trying to wrap my head around it. "I don't understand. It's not my fault that jackass couldn't keep his mouth shut. Why me?"

James nods, watching me. "Yes, they played their hand too early, don't you think? By sueing you. They could have had the publisher drop it so many other ways." He frowns. "Not subtle. And then they'd made such a fuss it was bound to get the attention of other journalists - or you, or an editor could have tipped someone off..."

I sit back on the edge of the couch again, willing myself to stay still.

James sips his wine delicately. "So...they were out of options. They had to hire out -" he sniffs distastefully, "-and make a big show. So crude. They didn't know you had backing, you see?"

 


	24. Chapter 24

_They didn't know you had backing, you see?_

"But then... How did you convince them to drop the lawsuit?" I ask.

"One of my associates had a conversation with Carlton. He never used my name, of course." James shrugs. "I never let my name be known unless I have a very specific reason, something to gain."

I realize our glasses are empty and jump up to refill them. This whole conversation is making me antsy. "So..." My voice trails off.

"So why did I use it last night?" James smiles up at me as I hand him the glass.

The dogs have arranged themselves on either side of him on the couch, so I take a spot on the floor.

He takes a sip, and looks thoughtfully down at the bubbles before continuing. "This is quite nice, I think. Do you like it?"

"I do. You have good taste."

He gestures at me mischievously. "Obviously."

"Don't be charming." I shake my head, smiling. "Go on."

James narrows his eyes and looks at me very directly, as if to make sure he has my full attention. "Strategy, Anaïs. You can save yourself an awful lot of time and trouble if the first time you meet an opponent, you're absolutely ruthless."

He pauses, letting his words sink in.

"You see," he continues after a long moment, "I could have matched what they had in mind and simply beat them until they required a hospital. But then their boss would have thought we were equals."

He takes a long sip of wine and can't seem to help the small smile of satisfaction that appears when he speaks next: "Now he knows better. And in the future, he'll be a reasonable man, and we'll be able to negotiate."

Something in my face must betray my astonishment at his nonchalance.

"It's business," he shrugs. "Ask any attorney, any CEO, if they understand that strategy. And..." He smiles at me. "I was a teensy bit angry. Really, they shouldn't have touched you."

I drink my wine in silence. Was I shocked by last night? Very much. But was I sorry that James had acted as he did? I didn't know.

Three men on one woman wasn't a fair fight, and they certainly meant me harm. But shouldn't the punishment fit the crime? Especially if their deaths were a bid for status? And yet, if James hadn't been there, I'd be in the hospital right now. To have someone come to your rescue - that was a powerful attachment.

James interrupts my reverie. "Anaïs, think about horseracing, one of the most dangerous sports in the world. If a jockey or a driver is in a fatal accident, that's tragic, that's sad, yeah? But we accept that they knew the risks and were willing to take them. It's just the same with those lads last night."

His phone dings and after checking it, he stands and leans against the arm of the sofa. "Those lads were of a mind to be making a name for themselves. That's how it works, love, that's how you move up the corporate ladder, so to speak." He grins at his own humor. "They knew the risks. They played the game. They lost. It's just that simple."

 

****

 

The doorbell rings and James goes to answer it, returning laden down with a large cardboard box full of to-go containers. "I didn't know what you liked, so I got one of nearly everything."

I can't help but laugh. "You," I say, pointing at him as he unpacks a veritable mountain of Thai food, "you are crazy."

"Yes, but I'm sooo fun," he replies, grinning.

It's true, he IS fun, and charming, and wonderful company. I leave the difficult questions alone while we're eating and let him entertain me with tales of his adventures, and Ireland, and coming to America. He's a marvelous storyteller.

After we've cleared things away - all the leftovers threatening to make it impossible to close the refrigerator - I suggest we take the dogs for a walk. I'm just down the stairs with them when I notice the car in guest parking, a man casually lounging against it.

I glance hastily at James, and he nods. "Mine." He points across the park adjacent to my condo. "There are others. Usually I try to travel light, but..." He leaves it unsaid.

"How do you know that you can trust the people who work for you?" I ask quietly.

James puts a finger to his mouth, considering his answer. "Well, of course I pay very well, that goes without saying. I also take care of their families - I never take on anyone who doesn't care about someone. And I only send them into jobs where they can do well, so they feel good, they have my approval, and they feel needed," he explains. "So there's that part of it, the positive part."

I'm a little apprehensive about what comes next.

"And on the other side of things, I always make sure to have an insurance policy." He gives me a sideways glance to see if I understand, but I don't. "I make sure that I have or know at least one thing about each man who works for me that would - if I used it - ruin his life," he says, matter-of-factly.

Jesus. I can't wrap my head around the business James versus the I-bought-one-of-everything James. It just isn't getting through.

"And then, of course, each one only has a small glimpse of the big picture. There's only one man I trust implicitly, my second-in-command. Sebastian's my chief of staff, as it were, and even he doesn't know everything I do."

I wonder if it's lonely, living that way. It must suit him; he chose it, after all.

"You'd be surprised at how many people rely on me for their well-being, really you would. I can't afford to be betrayed." His soft accent is musical, soothing, even when the words themselves are frightening.

He glances at me, measuring my state of mind. "You do realize I'm telling you far more than - well, than I should, for certain."

I stifle a laugh. "Oh, very good, James. Imagine using honesty as the building block of a relationship. Hmmm. Fancy that."

Now he laughs. "What else do you want to know? I can tell you're having a bit of a restless mind tonight."

 


	25. Chapter 25

"A restless mind? Yeah, I suppose. But honestly, I always have a restless mind. It's just how I'm made. It will eventually drive you insane."

I'm a bit ahead of him now, as we walk, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "From one restless soul to another - I very much doubt that."

I glance back at him. Even now, with all my questions and the whole evening on my terms, he has the walk and expression of a man who looks around his kingdom and finds it to his liking. 'The world is my oyster', indeed.

"I read an interesting article today."

"Oh?" he says politely.

"Mmm. It suggested the percentage of winning longshots at racetracks in California has increased significantly. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

He laughs. "I said I would answer your questions. I never said I would provide specifics."

We're at the stairs of the condo now, and the dogs bound up, eager to get their treat. Inside, James refills our glasses and we sit on the floor in front of the fireplace.

"Why did you cancel on the 7th race?" I ask, undaunted.

"You're not one to give up, I like that," he says with a smirk.

I narrow my eyes at him. "You are trying to wiggle out of our deal."

"Not at all. I'd be happy to tell you, providing, of course," he raises both eyebrows, "you don't mind posting the wedding banns first."

"I...what?" I'm already giggling.

"Then you'd not be compelled to testify against me, you see." He's trying his best to keep a straight face.

I shake my head, unable to contain myself. "Oh, for the love of God, James, you've lost your mind." I grab a pillow off the couch and toss it at him.

He throws back his head and laughs. "What? Can you not see yourself marrying a foreigner, then, is that it?"

And the absurdity of it all sends us both into fits of laughter, until I'm almost crying, I'm laughing so hard. "Jesus, James." I take a breath and wipe the tears from my cheeks.

When I can speak again, I raise my glass to him. "Thank you for being there last night. I'd much rather be here than in St. Joe's ICU." I swallow. It's still just sinking in, what could have been, and what was.

He nods. "You're welcome," he says softly. The gaze between us is as intimate as a kiss.

James doesn't blink. It's strange, did I notice that before? I look away before I get lost, and straighten up. "It's been a very long day."

James raises his eyebrows again, "Are you telling me to take my leave?"

"I am," I say quietly. "It's a lot to take in. And I have an appointment in the morning."

A flicker of something - sadness? - plays over his face, and then it's gone. He nods thoughtfully. "Oh? Are you getting up early, then?"

"It's not too bad, it's not until 10, but I need to prep. It's an interview for a piece I'm doing on the hot new restaurateurs."

"Sounds delicious," he says and winces.

"Ugh, that was a horrible pun."

"Sorry," he giggles, and I scoot over to sit next to him.

"Thank you for dinner," I say formally, and then, before he can answer, I take his face in my hands and kiss him, slowly and very, very thoroughly, letting him feel all the confused emotions inside of me.

I pull back before it can turn to something else, and I feel like I've left a part of myself with him. I open my eyes slowly, and he's looking at me with a kind of stillness, a certainty. It's disconcerting. I wonder if I will ever find my equilibrium with this man.

In the foyer, I retrieve his jacket and tie, and when I turn back, James pulls me to him, so I can feel the whole length of his body against mine. He kisses my neck, just below my ear, and whispers, "I canceled on the 7th race because you thought you had a good chance - and I loved watching you win."

He takes his jacket and tie out of my hands, and then he's gone, before I can even say goodnight.


	26. Chapter 26

In the morning I dress carefully for my interview with the owner of Plaza 52, choosing a linen sheath that falls just past the knee, chunky 40's-style heels, and a fitted jean jacket.

I'm in a good mood until I walk out the front door and run into a new version of Mason. He nods. "How do you do, Miss Nielsen. I'm to take you to your appointment this morning."

As always, my face is easy to read, because he hastily continues. "My employer said you might need to be, ah, reminded that it would be in your best interests. Miss."

I look at him for a moment. "And your name is?"

"Tom, Miss."

"Thank you, Tom. Your employer is very persuasive, isn't he?" I sigh.

I follow Tom to the car, and give him the address of Plaza 52. In return, he gives me a number to text whenever I need him. And that is how I came to meet my interview subject, stepping out of a chauffeured car and feeling like a queen. It's a great boost of confidence when meeting someone new, I will say that.

And my interview goes well, I take lots of good photos, and I can already map the article out in my mind. I think I'll shop it to Sunset first, this is right up their alley for the fall travel issue. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I take a moment to text Tom that I'm finished.

"Well, don't you look like the cat with a few feathers left?" comes that lovely Irish lilt from behind me. I whirl around to find James leaning against the building I've just exited.

I can't help myself, I break into a huge smile. "James, you bastard," I say, but my voice is teasing and he laughs with me.

"You look too lovely to go home just yet, would you be having lunch with me?"

As he walks up to me I find myself idly wondering how many suits this man has. I've yet to see a repeat, and they're all perfectly tailored. I could really never get enough of looking at him.

He kisses me on the cheek. "What do think about Zocalo?" he asks. "I fancy sitting out in this perfect weather."

It's so interesting the way he just assumes my answer will be yes, but of course, it is. It's maddening, really.

In the backseat he rubs his knuckles down my bare arm. "I do love seeing you like this. When you're happy, the whole world is happy. It's contagious."

He runs his fingers down the length of my dress, and I gasp when he begins slowly teasing the skin on the inside of my knee.

"Don't you have a vast business enterprise to run, or do you just spend all your time eating out?"

James laughs. "Oh, we can discuss that at...length...over lunch. But at the moment, I'm just a bit preoccupied..." His fingers are gently tracing patterns along the inside of my thigh. "...by how soft the skin is here."

Jesus, this man is going to be the death of me. He leans in and kisses my neck lightly, the kind of kisses that make you shiver like a breeze off the lake on a hot day. My neck is my weakness, and he must know, because now he lightly bites me all over, and I'm melting under the feel of his teeth.

"I want to taste you," he murmurs against my earlobe, and slowly kisses a path from my ear to my collarbone. My whole body hums under his touch, and I'm incredibly wet already. His fingers move inside the slip of satin I call panties, and then he's running his fingers over my labia, and then my clit. The jolt is so intense it almost lifts my hips off the seat.

"Tell me, Anaïs," he whispers, "do you want to feel me inside you?" Some sort of stifled sound from the back of my throat is my response, but James says, "That isn't a yes or no, my dear. I know you value clear communication," he adds, wickedly. Both his voice and his fingers are teasing.

Do I? Is this wise? Do I care?

"God, yes," I say, because it's the only true answer.

"Mmm," James hums a little purr of satisfaction against my neck, and moves up to my mouth. His kiss is hungry, searching, and when I part my lips to kiss him in return, he slides two fingers into my wetness and deeply inside. My moan is lost in his mouth as he sucks on my tongue, and then my lower lip.

He's rhythmically, deeply fingering me now and I can't help but move my hips up to meet his hand. He moves his mouth just off mine and murmurs, "Taste you, remember?" and with his free hand pushes up my skirt and spreads my legs. He pulls my panties aside and bows his head.

I can feel just the hint of stubble from his cheeks on the tender skin of my thighs as his tongue winds a path upwards, teasing me mercilessly. My hands find his hair as he takes my clit in his mouth, and it's all I can do not to cry out as his fingers edge deeper inside my pussy.

There's no thoughts now, just pure sensation as his skilled mouth and hands build and build my pleasure. My hips move in sync with his mouth and I want to give myself up to him, abandon myself to this feeling. I can't stifle my cry when I climax, and James leaves his fingers inside me to feel every wave, then, with a sound of satisfaction, he moves to kiss me, his lips still slick and tasting of me.

I feel vulnerable, under his lips - he's seen me now so intimately,and yet as always he's an enigma. But his mouth takes all of my fear and gives me his approval in return.

When finally James sits back and I catch my breath, he pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, and ever the gentleman, hands it to me. I dab my lips and hand it back, and James wipes his face and hands carefully, then folds it neatly.

He sniffs it deeply before placing it carefully back in his breast pocket. "Hmm, very nice. This will be so helpful if my meeting this afternoon is boring, which it almost always is." He gives me a mischievous smile. "They'll all be wondering why I'm so cheerful."

I reach for my powder and lipstick and reapply it as James watches appreciatively. "A meeting? I suppose it would be better if I didn't ask?"

"Oh, you can ask me anything, my dear. Just as long as you're prepared to hear my reply," he answers with his Cheshire Cat grin.

As we pull up to the restaurant, I glance up and see Tom in the rearview mirror. His face is impassive, but - holy hell. I look down at my lap, blushing furiously. "I am NEVER going to be able to look that driver in the face again," I whisper fiercely.

James chuckles. "Never be ashamed of enjoying yourself, love. So many people don't, and that's the shame - not this." And he kisses my hand.

My god, he's smooth. I can't believe how absolutely shameless I've just been, nevermind any resolutions I had yesterday of not getting involved. Really, what in the hell am I doing?

"What we're doing, love, is having lunch." It's eerie how well he can read me. "I think we've both worked up quite an appetite, don't you?" he says with a sly grin, and offers me a hand out of the car.


	27. Chapter 27

Where's the point where you realize you're in too deep? By all accounts it should have been when I watched this man shoot two people in the head; that should have scared me away forever. But because he rescued me, it had just the opposite effect. So where was my pressure point?

I couldn't think objectively in his presence, his innate charisma was just too strong. You wanted to bask in it, like sunshine. You missed it when it was gone. It was a thought in the back of my mind that I almost didn't even recognize, it felt so natural. That was his magnetism - he could pull anyone in.

So when James dropped me off after lunch, it took nearly all my willpower to tell him I needed a few days to myself.

"James," I say with hesitation, but he cuts me off.

"Ah - this is the same tone you used when you told me to take my leave last night. If you're just about to tell me you need time to yourself, don't fuss. I have to be in the city the rest of the week."

Surprised, I nod. "Yes, I - I just - I'm getting so behind, I need to draft this article and I've hardly written -"

"It's fine. I'm not offended." His voice is casual.

Oh, hell. He deserves a better explanation than that.

"I find you overwhelming, honestly. All of the rest of it - it's secondary. I just - I'm not sure that's a good way to feel. Especially since we live in such different worlds." I look up at James. "I don't want to lose my edge, you know?"

James sits, observing me closely. Finally he smiles, a knowing smile, but still genuine. "Your honesty - it's one of the things I like best about you. You never pretend to be someone you're not."

He puts his hand under my chin, holding softly so I can't look away. His eyes are so dark today, like deep forest pools. It would be easy to get lost.

He speaks quietly. "You can hold your own, my dear. You just don't know what you're capable of yet."

I open my mouth to speak, but I have no words. James watches my lips and slowly leans in to kiss me, a chaste kiss that, as he surely intended, leaves me wanting more.

"But by all means, yes, pull yourself together." he teases gently. "And then come see me this weekend. The flat is finished, I'm quite pleased with it. We could catch a show, if you like." His voice is casual, but his eyes are appraising. He's so very observant.

Suddenly I'm struck with an idea that makes me think maybe the axis of power isn't always so uneven. I stretch my legs out and as James watches, shimmy out of my satin thong.

I hand it to James. "If I'm not going to see you until the weekend, you're going to need more than a handkerchief."

The smile he gives me could stop the moon in its orbit. He folds up my thong and puts it in his inside pocket. "Ah, I do like you, Anaïs."

I take my leave while I'm still ahead.

 

****

 

Through the rest of the week I try to keep thoughts of James on the back burner, but they spring up everywhere. At the barn, I miss the bounce jump - again! - when I remember him sitting in the stands, watching me ride. At the Parkway, walking the dogs, I'm sideswiped by the memory of that first kiss, and his astonishment. And at the track, I can't help but picture his face, his laughing admiration when he realized that I'd won our bet.

In fact, it seems there's almost no place of mine to which he hasn't gained access. And that's - unsettling, to say the least. Now that I'm out from under the pull of his charisma, I wonder how I've let things move so quickly.What do I really know about him at all?

Uneasy, I try to finish my article polish, but I can't concentrate. Finally I give up. I pour a beer and head to the deck with my pen and notebook.

Richard answers on the fifth ring, when I've almost given up. When I identify myself, he sounds wary. Rich, whom I've known for years. "Hey - what's going on?" I ask. "You sound strange."

There's a substantial pause. "Richard?" Has he hung up? But no -

"That file was nothing to laugh at, Anaïs. I like you, you pay on time - fuck! I'm not kidding, don't put me in a spot like that."

I cringe at the anger in his voice, but feel suddenly defensive. "Rich - I'm really sorry, I am, but how the fuck did I know he would do that?"

"Well, you're the one - you gave him my name!" he shouts at me.

"For the lawsuit!" I shout back, frustrated.

"So you knew he knew!"

"Jesus, Richard, no I didn't! I mean yeah, I knew he would contact you, I was being SUED, doesn't that mean anything?"

"You haven't even asked," he snapped.

"Asked what?"

"If I'm okay."

"What? Why wouldn't you be?"

"You didn't see the man who brought the file!"

"Right, that's my point - I didn't, so how was I supposed to know to ask? Seriously?" I say in bewilderment.

There's a pause. "Yeah, okay. I see your point." He sighs. "So what do you need?"

"Uh..." There's no good way to say it. "I actually called to talk about the file."

"Goddammit, Anaïs! What did I just say?" he bellowed.

"That you saw my point?"

There's some muffled sounds, like maybe Rich is slamming things around on his desk, and then -

"Fine. What?"

"Um, just, you know - how bad was it?"

"Bad."

"Yeah, but how bad? Bad how?"

"This is not a man to screw around with Anaïs, literally, figuratively - I don't know how you fucking met him or what you've done -"

"What I've done?" I interrupt, disbelieving.

" - but you are in way over your head."

"What do mean, what I've done?"

"You must have done something. File guy didn't show up here for no reason."

I sigh. "I need specifics, Richard."

"No. No way, no deal. Uh-uh. I'm not involved in this."

"I'm not either!" I protest.

"Your - friend - is not a man to cross, I'm not taking any chances."

"Is this the kind of thing where we don't say his name aloud over the phone?"

"Boy, do you know how to catch a fastball," he says sarcastically.

"Screw you, Richard, this isn't my area of expertise."

"That's what I'm saying. You'd better think about it." He sighs, resigned. "I gotta go. I'll talk at you later." And he hangs up.

I stare at the phone in silence until it starts to beep to be hung up on my end. Well, fuck. What am I supposed to think without any specifics? Can't I make up my own mind?

I take a long sip of beer. I know one thing.

I want the file.


	28. Chapter 28

The conversation with Richard haunts me the rest of the week, and James does nothing to distract me from it by by being good to his word and neither calling nor texting, so that I alternate between missing him and worrying. Enough, in fact, that I decide to drive myself to the East Bay and take the tube across the bay to San Francisco. I don’t want my freedom under someone else’s thumb, no matter how well-intentioned. I text James my plans and within minutes, my cell phone rings.

“Anaïs, be reasonable,” he says, without so much as a hello.

“James, it’s perfectly reasonable to want to be self-determining. You of all people can’t argue that.”

He sighs. “Yes, but I’d feel better if -”

I cut him off. “That’s not my chief concern. I appreciate it, but my chief concern is how I feel about it, and again, you of all people -”

“You are damnably stubborn, do you know this?”

“You’ve said so before.”

He laughs, rueful. “So I have. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too,” I say, and it’s the truth. “Listen, I can compromise. Your car can pick me up at Embarcadero Station. I’ll text.”

“That’s not compromise, you sly fox. That’s just convenience.”

I giggle. “So it is. You got me.”

“Don’t bring anything,” he says. “I want to dress you. It’ll be fun.”

“I thought you wanted to undress me.”

“That, too.”

“I’m not a fan of shopping, really - but I’ll indulge you. As long as it’s duly noted.”

“In the record book, do you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“Tough bargain,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, matching mine.

“Right. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Ciao, my dear.”

I stare at my phone for a moment after we hang up.

I have lost my mind. There’s no doubt about it.

******

The chilliness of San Francisco is always a shock after the Central Valley warmth of Sacramento, so I’m glad for my long cardigan when I step out onto the Embarcadero Center plaza. San Francisco is a city unrivaled in beauty and location - perhaps there are some, like Barcelona, who can match it, but none can best it. I appreciate it anew every time I visit.

The black town car is waiting, as promised, and when I slide into the back seat I’m surprised and pleased to find James. I can’t help it, there’s just something about him that makes my heart race.

“Baby,” he says, and I curl into his open arms. He smells delicious and familiar, and I kiss his neck lightly, marveling again at his smooth skin. He turns his face to kiss me and it’s increasingly intimate, this connection we share. I want him; it’s really that simple, and no amount of files or warnings is going to change that, it seems.

“What are you doing here?” I ask somewhat breathlessly as the kiss breaks off.

“What, could I not simply miss you?”

I wrinkle my nose. “No, you’re a pragmatist. That would be out of character.”

He laughs. “Ach - and now you’re starting to know me, eh? I had errands to run. And I’m sorry to say - “ he picks up my hand and kisses my palm, “ - I’ve had some unexpected business come up. I need to pop down to my attorney’s office and take care of a few things.”

“On a Saturday?”

“I know,” he says smoothly, “his bill will be astronomical, I’m sure.” He shrugs. “I thought I’d drop you off at the flat and you can make yourself at home. I shouldn’t be gone longer than an hour, an hour and a half at the most.”

I take in this change of plans and then nod, slowly. “Okay. That’s fine,” I say, but there’s some faint unease prickling at the back of my neck. Nonsense, I tell myself. It’s just an hour.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he observes in that maddeningly accurate way he has.

“No, it’s just… It’s always strange, being in someone else’s home alone.”

“Nonsense,” he says, weirdly echoing my inner voice. He leans forward, rubbing his face in my hair, then behind my ear and along my jawline. “Whatever I have is yours, my sweet Anaïs. My house is your house.”

God, it’s distracting when we’re touching, like my neural pathways have a detour path.

Gently, James bites my jaw, and then my lower lip. “I have missed you, really I have,” he says huskily before kissing me fully, and I dissolve into his kiss, his voice, his words. I’ve missed him too, missed this passionate, enigmatic connection.

We pull up to a newer high rise in the Pacific Heights neighborhood with stunning views in every direction.

James springs out of the car and offers me a hand. “Come on then, I’ll show you up.”

I try to keep my jaw from dropping to my chest as I take in the security, doorman, and conspicuously luxe entry. _Jesus. I am not cut out for this._ I follow James to the elevator as he enters a code that takes us to one of the upper floors.  There’s just two apartments on this floor, and a young, well-built man in an immaculate suit stands next to the door at the end of the foyer. James nods but doesn’t speak to him, and with another code and keys, leads me inside.

It’s everything you would imagine it would be - spacious, modern, tasteful. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views down to the Marina District and out to the bay, and even a small deck garden sheltered from the wind by the living area. Thankfully, given my fear of heights, it has high railings. The whole space is beautiful, sumptuous - I walk through the rooms cooing softly to myself.

When I turn around, James is watching me with a gratified smile. “Ah, you do like it. I’m quite chuffed, myself.” He checks his watch. “I have to run, love. Really, make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a tick.” He kisses me on the cheek, but he’s all business, and moments later, he’s out the door.

I wander into the kitchen - spotless, of course - and open the refrigerator. Apparently James doesn’t eat. There’s a dubious box of take-out, some pickles, gourmet mustard, and about ten bottles of really excellent sparkling wine. Well, I can live with that. I poke around the cupboards until I find the mixers and liquor and an unopened bottle of sparkling water. Glasses, glasses...hmm - this is why I find it so awkward to be here alone. It’s strange, isn’t it, that James would do so?

Either there’s nothing at all incriminating here or he trusts me an awful lot for someone he’s only known a few weeks. Both possibilities sound unlikely to the extreme.

I finally locate the glasses and after pouring myself a glass of water make my way to the living room. It’s tasteful but sparse. The only personal touch is a portrait of James done in acrylic - fast, thick strokes of paint that capture his essence more than his likeness. It’s very good.

Peering closer I try to discern a signature, but it’s only initials - _S.M._. Hmm. Someone who knows James, not a commission. There’s too much intimacy in the painting to have been created by a stranger.

Setting my glass down on a side-table, I meander through the rest of the space. A sort-of pantry-cum-laundry off the kitchen (which makes me giggle - don’t people wealthy enough to live here usually send their laundry out to be dry-cleaned?) a den/workout room, and an office - obviously well-used although exceptionally tidy (I don’t even enter, I’m too freaked out by what I might find) - comprise the space behind the living room. At the opposite end, an enormous bathroom (huge - what would a guest even be doing in there?) off the living room, and then a short hallway with doors at both ends. I pause. Should I really be wandering in such a personal space?

Well, no doubt if James were giving me the tour, it would include the master bedroom, which I’m guessing is at the end of the hall. I’m correct; the room takes up two glass walls with the same incredible views, and is even more spartan: A cast-iron bed - not the curly, ornate kind, but one that reminds me of cast-iron fences - stands in the middle of the room, facing the windows. A side arrangement has several comfortable chairs and a chaise lounge. Off of the bedroom is an absurdly large closet - I now know how many suits James owns and can safely say I won’t be seeing a repeat for quite some time - and a bathroom larger than my living room with a tub large enough for three and a shower that could bathe a small security detail all at once.

Still, other than a selection of cologne and moisturizers, plus a hand-carved wooden bowl on the dresser with a collection of tie pins and cufflinks, there’s really nothing personal here. Like the rest of the space, it’s sumptuous but utilitarian at the same time.

But then it hits me - that’s exactly James. Pragmatic, yet sensual. An enigma.

I can’t stand by the windows too long or I start to feel vertigo, so I sink to the sisal rug and and lean with my back against the glass, surveying the room. My eyes are drawn to the bed.

Do I want James to be my lover? Am I ready for that?

I feel more confused than ever. When I see him, I can’t help but respond. But when he’s away - like now, looking around - I can’t really imagine what we could really share, I can’t imagine living here or living in this way, so self-contained, so few connections. Even though I’ve been keeping myself to myself for a while now, you can still look around my condo and see where I come from. Not so here. There’s nothing to give away the identity of the occupant.

I can’t imagine having the kind of life where I have to hide my past to insure my future.

Restless now, I rise and walk down the hall. There’s another door at the end, just adjacent to the guest restroom. I open it carefully. A comfortable guest suite, complete with desk, sofa, and flat screen. And another bathroom, nearly as large as the main, with the closet accessed through the far side. Curious, I open it. More suits. I giggle and start to close the door when I realize they’re sized for a man well over six feet, which rules James out by several inches.

I stand and just look at them for a moment, collecting my thoughts. Curious, right? It was odd, I wasn’t imagining it.

Closing the door, I step to the bathroom cabinet. All men’s grooming supplies - razor, shaving cream, lotion, cologne - but none of the expensive, luxe brands that James prefers. Now I’m really curious. What the hell was going on here? I open the drawers of the vanity expecting the usual toiletries, which is exactly what I find, plus one note on thick cardstock that appears to have been carelessly thrown in with the q-tips and cotton balls.

In James’ script it’s short and to the point: _I prefer you naked. ~ JM_

 


	29. Chapter 29

Feeling suddenly lightheaded, I throw it back in the drawer and quickly leave the room, careful that all is as I found it.

In the living room I take a long, long drink of water and have a seat in one of the Corbusier chairs. So what the hell? I know James likes men, and we’re certainly not at the exclusive stage of dating - if a man like James ever is - but does he have a live-in? That’s too much, far too much to expect me to deal with, I’m sorry. Does Mr. X even know about me?

All of my thoughts are tumbling over each other in an effort to get out, and that’s exactly what I want to do. The urge to grab my bag and walk out the door is almost overwhelming. I HATE having things kept from me, I abhor secrets - it’s all I can do to stay still.

I take a deep breath.

_Think, Anaïs. What did you say earlier - either there’s nothing incriminating or he trusts you? So just by coincidence he leaves you alone to check out his flat - he’s in such a hurry he can’t even give you a tour - and there just happens to be a note in the guest bathroom? Do you really think James wouldn’t know what was in there? This is James we’re talking about, mister meticulous plans, mister detail, mister OCD. Come on… Think with your head, think objectively. What’s the conclusion?_

_It’s a plant. He wanted you to see it._

Fuck the water, I decide. In the kitchen I find a champagne flute and open a bottle of sparkling wine. Wrapping my cardigan around me I take it out to the rooftop garden and sit in the sun.

So if it’s a plant, than this is - a test. He wants to see how I’ll react. Interesting. Not very nice, but interesting. After all, James doesn’t want me angry with him, he enjoys my pleasure. So what is this all about?

He brought me to his home. That means he has more to show me, more to share. Hmm.

I roll the data around in my head, thinking about what I’ve learned of James so far.

And then it just pops into my head, as answers usually do: My reaction gives him an idea of how I’ll handle deeper, more detailed information about his life. A person who acts on emotion can’t be trusted in his eyes. He needs to know I can think it through, like I just have. And jealousy is notoriously irrational, is it not? Can I take things, threatening, disconcerting things, in stride? His world is too changeable, too fluid for anyone who can’t roll with the punches.

But can I? Yes, I can think - but the rest? I’m really not sure, if I’m honest with myself.

I do know this - I’m bound and determined that I won’t be leaving San Francisco without having seen that file. And now I have leverage. I might not be world-class like James, but I’m no shrinking violet when it comes to playing games. There are no wimps in the world of horse racing, friend. I won our first bet, after all.

****

When James comes through the door, I’m lounging on the white suede couch, hair still wet from the shower, curled up in one of James’ robes. I’m sipping sparkling wine and feeling - purposeful. The wine is helping - liquid courage, indeed.

And James is smart, so smart - the instant our eyes meet he knows I’ve figured it out. The look in his eyes is positively devilish as he smiles at me. He turns away to take off his jacket and waistcoat, but it’s also strategic - a moment to decide what to say first. “I see you’ve made yourself at home rather well, my dear.”

I just look at him for a long, long moment. Being stared at doesn’t bother him, he doesn’t have a self-conscious bone in his body. And as I look him up and down I think that I’ve seen him naked twice and yet not in any way that lessened the mystery. I want him naked. I want him naked, and raw, and present.

James watches all of this play out over my face, and waits for me to speak.

“You know, I always do well on tests. I always have. But I strongly dislike being tested.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you mind if I just grab a glass?” he asks, politely.

“No, by all means, please join me.”

He sits across from me with his glass of wine and pulls off his tie, unbuttons his collar until the pale skin of his neck is visible, and leans forward. “You were saying?”

Bastard. I swear I want to smack him and kiss him, preferably in that order. I take a breath and smile sweetly.

“You like to be entertained and you hate to be bored, so to you - you probably think of it as a game. And either it hasn’t occurred to you or you just don’t care that to the other person a game that’s pass or fail is, actually, a test.”

James looks genuinely taken aback by the last but he recovers quickly. Score one for me, I think. I take another sip of my wine. “So I guess my question to you is - did you even, ever - did you actually give him that note, or did you just write it up this morning?”

Now he’s smiling, thoroughly amused. “Him - who?”

“Sebastian, of course. Your second in command.”

Now James throws back his head and laughs, and flops back in his chair like a rag doll, grinning broadly. He raises his glass to me in a mock salute. “I knew you’d get it.”

I nod, but I’m not smiling. I speak quietly. “Did you also know it would hurt my feelings? Did you get that? Did you get that you shouldn’t fuck with someone’s trust when they’re just learning to trust you?”

James says nothing, but I can see my words sinking in.

I shake my head slowly. “Do you know why that didn’t occur to you, you who thinks of everything? Because you don’t know anything about trust. You’re clueless.”

There’s a long, quiet moment. It’s not uncomfortable, which is odd. It’s more...thoughtful. That’s what it is. James is thinking this through, like I just did. Being wrong is interesting to him. Having it pointed out is both intriguing and infuriating. Knowing he brought it on himself - that’s the key.

“But I’ve thought of something you could do that would help you understand what it feels like to trust someone.”

“Oh? And what’s that, my dear?” He licks his lips unconsciously, one of his little habits that makes me crazy with desire, the desire to have an impact on him.

“You can give me the file you gave Richard so I can read it for myself.”

James nods appreciatively, and tilts his head, assessing my commitment to this particular course of action. “I don’t have to decide right now, do I?”

Now I smile, the wine lending me a particular recklessness. “I dunno. Depends on how far you want to get with me.” And we both start laughing. I’m no femme fatale, and we both know it, but I’m nobody’s fool, either. “You can kiss me first. But you have to decide by the end of the kiss.”

I set my glass down and move off the sofa until I’m on my knees in front of him. He scoots forward and opens his legs so I’m kneeling between them.The wine has made me bold, and as he leans down to kiss me, I run my hand up his thigh and feel a jolt in return. I can feel him harden under my touch, and when he reaches in my robe and twists my nipple, I gasp against his mouth. Our kiss has gone from tender to lust in our standard .05 seconds, and I can feel his full erection through his trousers.

Still kissing, I reach to unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. With one hand I pull the waistband forward and with the other take hold of his impressively thick cock, and now it’s James who gasps, his lips so soft and full I have to restrain myself from biting him cruelly. WIth the palm of one hand rubbing circles around the head of his cock and my other hand on his shaft, I let myself explore. He’s nicely made, large without being intimidating, thick, with a slight upward curve. Thinking about him inside me has made me absurdly wet, and it’s all I can do not to fall on him right there and take him in the chair.

But I show admirable restraint. “Have you decided?” I ask against his mouth. His eyes blink open and I lean back so we can look at each other, never letting go of his cock. He smiles, and I return it. “I’m serious, time’s up. What’s it gonna be?”

Now he reaches out, and grabbing my hair with both hands pulls my face to his. “You know what my answer is.”

“I just want to hear you say it.”

“You are a stubborn bitch, do you know that?” His voice is silky soft in my ear, but his fingers are unyielding. His breathing is rapid now as I stroke him.

“So you’ve said - I think that was just yesterday,” I say, my voice teasing. “And?”

”Yes,” he says shortly, and kisses me, hard, so that some part of me is forced to yield. But now that I’ve won this round, I surrender easily.

“Then take me to bed. I want to fuck you so bad it’s killing me.”


	30. Chapter 30

James is not physically imposing, but beautifully defined. This time, when he strips, I watch every movement greedily. His skin is pale, smooth, the late afternoon light highlighting his bone structure and ropy muscles, the veins under his skin blue and distinct. There’s a faint dusting of hair in the middle of his chest but a definite trail from his slim navel down, and his hip bones are so sharp I know he’s going to bruise me. I look forward to it.

“I’m going to mark you,” he says in that eerie way he has of echoing my inner thoughts. His hands are on either side of my face as he stares at me intently. “I’m going to mark you with my scent, my teeth, my cum, my hands, and my blood.” I gaze up at him, speechless. “Are you ready for that, my dear?” he asks intently.

I take a sharp breath. I wanted him naked and raw, and that’s exactly what I have.

James, a man who forever alters everything he touches, a man who can’t help but set his mark upon the world. And now on me.

My voice is surprisingly steady as I look up at him. “Yes… Yes, I am.” I smile, knowing that we always have something we can come back to, a baseline. “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,” I tease, and he smiles back, amused.

“Ah, Anaïs. I do adore you. You make me laugh, my dear. But now -” His gaze turns steely. “Now I have something else in mind.”

And with that look I know, suddenly, that James means to possess me. Our eyes meet, and I take a breath. “Yes,” I say, my voice a whisper now. And when he leans in to kiss me and I feel him enter me for the first time, I give in as I never have before. All of me, every piece of me - I offer it up to him. _Take me, take it all…_ I throw caution to the wind and in return I finally learn what it means to be possessed utterly, to feel sweet oblivion, to have no more influence on my own safety than I do on the movement of the spheres. I belong to James, and he loves the feel of my utter surrender as I love the feel of his utter domination, and with every thrust I open myself to him more than I knew possible.

The feel of his thick cock is inexorable, unrelenting, driving me to a forgone conclusion, and I give myself up to it. And when he stops, suddenly, my legs quivering with the effort not to rub up against him, I take an anguished breath. His voice is soft in my ear. “I’ve been saving this for you,” he says, his voice so deeply melodic I would follow it anywhere just to hear him whisper to me again. “Ever since we kissed that day.” Every nerve in my body is screaming for him to move, but he stays still, savoring my need for him. “Of course that means this time may be cut short,” he says, and I can hear the faint smile in his voice, “but I want to give you all I have to give,” he murmurs in my ear.

Oh, god. The thought of him coming inside me is so intense, I can’t stay still - involuntarily my hips arch to his, my legs spread a little wider, every part of me ready, receptive, wanting every inch of him. Feeling this his body responds in kind, his hips slowly and deeply thrusting his cock deep inside me. Now his kisses are demanding, possessive, asking questions I can only answer with my tongue, my skin, my breath. He stares at me, unblinking, watching my helpless responses, my lack of self-control each time the head of his cock rubs against my g-spot, my pleasure rising like a fever.

Finally, when I am almost shaking, he sees I am at the edge of release and lets himself go, thrusting into me roughly, his voice guttural, almost anguished as I clench around him and he spills into me, spurting over and over as his cock fills me relentlessly, my pussy turgid with his sweet hot cum. My voice breaks into cries of surrender, my nails digging into his back, as I seek to have him deeper, further, inside me. I want every drop, every inch, I want him with a hunger that’s unceasing even as I climax over and over, his voice in my ear growling from deep in his throat with his own exploding pleasure.

Slowly, with great deliberation, he rests his head against my forehead and his body sags against mine, all tension gone from him in this moment. I can feel his sweat on my skin and a drop falls upon my eyelash, stinging my eye. Involuntarily I flick my tongue over his lips, tasting the salt and stubble. A shot of desire arches through me like a last flicker of lightning when a storm has passed through a valley, and then I feel a shudder as I can finally take a full breath.

_James. My god._

This man owns me.

It’s a disaster. A beautiful disaster.

*****

“You haven’t answered my question,” I say, the next time we’ve found a quiet space together.

Now loosed, the dogs of lust have run rampant all over the afternoon and into the evening, pulling us together and apart in sweat and sweet agony, in desire and dominion. My hunger for him is violent in nature, I want to bite him, slap him until he’s bruised, bring blood to the surface. I want to mark him as he marks me over and over. And he loves this violence in me, he encourages me with mouth and hands and teeth, he grips my shoulders with fingers that dig in so deeply I’m bruised, he presses my teeth deeper into his skin, and I moan in frustration against his neck.

And the hunger never goes away, it only subsides, and it’s in this wake that I ask.

“Which question, my dear?”

“About the note - about Sebastian,” I say firmly. I don’t care if I’m a fucking sex slave, I’m not letting this go.

He laughs softly, but his hands tighten on my hair as he works his way down to my neck. “Sebastian doesn’t need notes,” he says softly. “We’ve known each other since we were just glimmers of the men we’ve become. Sebastian knows my mind and I know his.” There’s a pause, a moment where I sense there's so many more words James might say, but something leads him away from speaking, and then he has his face buried in my hair, his lips against my neck. “That was an error in judgement, I regret it.”

I’m shocked by the admission, and it’s a salve to the easy intimacy he admitted with Sebastian, but I can’t help but probe further. “So does he live here?”

James sighs, and I feel his breath against my neck before he rolls away from me, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. “No. He stays here when he’s in town, but Sebastian is his own man, Anaïs. He has his own flat in Boston, he never would live with me no matter how many times I asked him, pled with him.” There’s a tiny note of pain in his voice, like a fissure in the foundation. “And he’ll do the same here, I’m sure. He’s on a job at the moment.”

“Does he know about me?” I ask quietly.

James laughs suddenly, a perverse amusement in his voice. “Oh, yes, he most certainly knows about you, my dear. Oh, yes, indeed.” Reaching out to me now, he pulls me to him until we’re eye to eye and I can see the graceful arc of the bones of his face, the lips I want to crush and bruise. “Sebastian has a claim on me,” he says, his eyes direct and unflinching, “and I have one on him, but it’s not a threat to you. Not at all.”

My eyes flicker over his beautiful face, thinking of all the emotions I’ve seen play upon it up until this night, and I answer with equal candor. “You’re not the kind of man who could be possessed, anyway.” My voice is rueful, but I don’t care. It’s my truth.

A smile plays upon James’ lips as he narrows his eyes. His fingers dig into my arms as he suddenly, without warning, pins me on my back. “Oh, there are different kinds of possession, my dear,” he says, and bends to trace a path across my lips, my cheeks, my eyes. “You’ll know in time, I promise.”

And that’s enough for me, enough for this moment in time where ordinary life has been suspended and I am both more and less than I’ve ever been before. It’s enough in the space where James is so absolutely elemental and as always, I’m a mere mortal in thrall to the sun.

 


	31. Chapter 31

I stretch languidly. Actual night has fallen and we’ve been in bed for going on seven hours, and I’m starving. “So much for going to the theater,” I say teasingly. “I’m glad you told me not to bring any clothes, since apparently I won’t be wearing any all weekend.”

James grins up at me from where he’s resting his head on my stomach. His fingers tattoo a steady beat on my waist. “Are you disappointed, then?”

God, his voice. Hearing him whisper in my ear while he’s inside me is insanely good, practically Pavlovian. His voice is like the Turkish Delight was to Edmund in Narnia - dangerous and sweet and leading me, no doubt, in all the wrong directions. My stomach growls just thinking about it, and James giggles, sitting up.

“My god, I will not be accused of starving you,” he says. “Do you fancy Chinese?”

“I fancy anything that arrives without tails or snouts,” I raise an eyebrow in reply. “I also fancy another glass of wine and - to be honest - a shower. I’m feeling a bit rich over here.”

James grins and waves me away. “Go, then. I’ll be the hunter/gatherer here and make sure we’re fed.”

Bending down, I kiss his full lips sweetly and whisper, “Yes, and think of all the rewards.”

“Mmhmm...like you won’t pass out, for example…”

I laugh despite myself. “You are a right bastard, you know that?”

“I believe you said that just yesterday,” he says, but his eyes close as our kiss deepens and suddenly all thoughts of food have left my mind as I kneel over him on the side of the bed. “Jesus, James,” I mutter against his lips, and he grabs my ass, lifting me up against him, and when I slide down on his thick cock it’s all I can do to stay in my body, I’m so overstimulated and my skin feels like every nerve is on fire. James pulls my hair almost savagely and my neck snaps as I twist to feel him even deeper.

I wrap my arms around his back, using his body for leverage so I can rock my hips against him, and my nails dig into his back. I’m rewarded by his gasp, and his eyes open, so dark and amused at my aggression. “What do you want to do to me, Anaïs?” he says huskily. “What are you thinking? Do it… do that thing you think you can’t do,” he whispers with such intense intimacy I catch my breath.

His stare is challenging and eviscerating - like always, he sees everything on my face and tears apart any guise I might be holding. I look over him, over his beauty, imagining all the things I could do, and my nails involuntarily dig into his back, making him laugh. “Oh, yes,” he whispers, “there’s so many choices, yeah? So many things you would do to me if you weren’t so good.”

I close my eyes as his hands on my shoulders pull me down onto his hard shaft, and when I open them, he’s looking at me so intently, I can’t look away.

“Do it,” he says again, his voice soft velvet.

I sense, vaguely, in that distant part of my brain that still functions in rationality, that this choice might have consequences, repercussions reaching far beyond this night, but I don’t live in that part of my brain at the moment and I ignore the quiet ringing of alarm bells.

No, all I see is the beautiful face of my lover, this man who owns me, who asks me to do that which I cannot do and laughs at me when I hesitate.

And surprising even myself, I raise my hand and hit him, palm open, against his mouth with such force it splays his face against the pillow. I’m horrified and gasp aloud, but James just shakes his head and smiles at me with calculated mischievousness. “Is that all?” he says, grinning. “C’mon, Anaïs, surely you can do better than that.” He grips my hips and pulls me down again and urges me on. “Do it,” he says, and it’s no longer a suggestion.

I feel a rush through my limbs, a liquid energy, and then I raise my arm again but now it’s the back of my hand that connects with his lips and jaw, and I can feel the force in my knuckles. His lip is split, and blood springs from where I’ve connected. But before I can grasp what I’ve done, James grabs my head in his hands and pulls my face down to his. Even if I wanted to fight, his grip is too strong, and when he says, “Kiss me,” I comply. But I don’t so much kiss him as lick the blood off his lips, my tongue finding the places already swelling and tender, and to my revulsion and even greater enthrallment, James begins to thrust in time with the flicks of my tongue against his bloody lips, and I’m already on edge when he pulls my hair painfully and I respond by biting down on his lip, the metallic taste filling my mouth and senses and without warning my pussy spasms around his thick shaft, catching me completely unawares as I cry out. “Oh god,”James says now and his words are almost swallowed by my mouth as I suck the blood off his lips, moaning helplessly while he fucks me hard, my knees up around his shoulders, my mouth tearing at him now and he moans in appreciation as he comes hard inside me. He wipes his lips across my face, his blood sweet and bitter at once, and I reach for him again, and taste it greedily.

In the mirror before I step into the shower I reach my hand up and trace the stripes of blood across my face. My god, what have I become, that I could do this… and more, that I cannot wait, I absolutely cannot wait, to do it again?

****

“You know this file was only made up to make an impression on Richard Brook, it’s only a prop, really,” James says, in one of the moments of peace between us.

I run my hands through his hair, as he absentmindedly nibbles on my nipple. “Ow! Jesus Christ!” I yelp, and swat him.

“Sorry, he says perfunctorily, and then, “No, I’m serious, it doesn’t mean anything, you do see that?”

“James,” I laugh, “Do you really think I’m going to give up? Why do you even still have this file, huh? You have it because you want to give it to me, Jesus Christ, I’m not an idiot. It exists because you want it to exist. Simple.”

James actually looks conflicted. I’m dumbstruck - it’s an expression I’ve never seen and hope to never see again upon his face. As quickly as it appears, it’s gone, replaced by his customary insouciance. “Oh, really, it’s like reading a gossip magazine. It may have some distant root in truth but -”

“-but what is truth, asked Pilate, and washed his hands.” I sit up now, all games aside, and stare at James as best I can. “Are you going to outline for me, in detail, who you are?” James just stares back. “No, you’re not,” I answer myself, “ because that isn’t amusing enough. So shut the fuck up and give me the file like you promised. It’s all your games anyway, and you insult my intelligence to pretend otherwise.”

James actually blinks, but only once, before breaking into laughter, and pulling me towards him. “Pontius Pilate? Really, Anaïs? Should I be flattered? I’m just a fallen angel, nothing quite that grand.” His voice is rich, as descriptive as the stained glass windows of a church and I am just a peasant, damn him, god damn him anywhere and any way that he’s not already damned.

His arms pull me against him and as I already anticipate, my body melts against the touch of his skin, his nipples hard against my back. He bites my shoulder, lightly at first, and then with increasing intent until I am pinned under his teeth. As he sucks my skin between his teeth, then my flesh, I find myself rubbing my ass up against him even as I try to stay still. It’s involuntary, this desire to be possessed, to be owned - I don’t know where it’s coming from and I apparently have no say in it. Humming sweetly against my bruised skin, James rubs his now-hard cock between my ass cheeks and I arch up, needing to feel him again. My god, I’m weak. He bites me, hard, hard enough that I suck in a breath, and whispers, “Can you stay absolutely still, my dear? I really doubt you can…” I can hear the amusement in his voice and I realize I’m paying for calling him out but I don’t care. I only want to feel him again, taking me fully, possessing me with or without my permission.

“Let’s see, I’ve marked you nearly all the ways I promised,” he says, looking at the red-blooming bruise he’s left on my sensitive skin, “but there’s something you haven’t given me, my dear, “ he says, and suddenly releases me. It’s completely disconcerting.

“What - what do you mean?”

He rolls out of the bed gracefully and pads to the dresser. When he comes back a moment later, he’s holding something I can’t see until he’s curled up against me again, the silky skin of his chest against my back, his biceps flexed with my sudden restraint as he holds me still.

His face is almost blank, just his eyes watching me. “What about your blood, love?” he says, and I see that he’s holding a pocket knife. Curiously, my mind notes the intricate woodwork of the handle and I feel no fear.

“Of course you don’t feel fear, “ James says, annoyed with the response he reads on my face. “ I would never hurt you, so why would you feel fear?”

I don’t hesitate for a minute. As strong as he is, I’m quicker, because I have the element of surprise. James doesn't know my reflexes or my training. With three sharp moves, I break out of his hold, turn, relieve him of the knife, and hold it against his throat.

“You’ve forgotten your manners,” I say quietly. “This is new to me. How dare you express impatience at my reaction.”

James has extraordinarily long lashes, I note as he keeps his eyes downcast. He’s grinning like a madman, though. He speaks like spun sugar. “Baby… My god, I do adore you.” He laughs to himself, and then sobers, realizing I’m not laughing at all. “Oh, my dear… I apologize. I was rude. You are quite right, quite right indeed. But really, feel free… take all the time you like holding the knife.” He raises his eyes to meet mine and I see that as always, I do not possess the advantage, he knows perfectly well that my threat is empty. I would no more cut him than… well, would I? My confusion must be obvious because slowly and sweetly he turns and kisses my cheek and relieves me of the knife and I acquiesce.

“Now, as I was saying,” he says matter-of-factly, “there’s just one thing I don’t have from you.” Well, I’m not one to give in that easily. I arch an eyebrow and move away from his skin, even though I hate to do it. “Yes?” I say, flatly.

“No,no, that will never do,” he says and tucks his mouth into my neck. “When - really, when will you remember that I believe in free will?” he says sweetly, and just like that, I’m putty in his hands, and he feels me relax into his embrace. “You silly girl, what pleasure would I get at you acting against your will at any time? That is so boring, ugh. So uninteresting. No, my love, you’ll give me everything because nothing less will fulfill you.”

And Jesus Christ, he couldn’t be more accurate. His wraps his arms around me, his fingers reaching for my nipples, twisting them just on this side of pain, so I’m rubbing against him and then there's his lips and teeth on my neck until my cunt is so wet I want to beg him to fuck me, but I don’t, and he just keeps torturing me in the most exquisitely delicious ways until I’ll do whatever, give whatever, just  - “Please, God, please James, what is it? What do you want from me?” I ask, breathless.

“Oh, my dear, I love hearing that,” he says, and like deja vu, he braces his arms against me and this time I see the glint of the blade. All of a sudden I know that it means a great deal to me to be the master - mistress - of this moment with James. Fuck, in for a penny, in for a pound. I adore him, I’m in way over my head, but if we’re going to conduct rituals then by god I will be self-determining. I take the blade from him gently, and I hold it against my palm. I look James in the eye, and he stares back, unblinking.

“Tell me what you want,” I say softly, and just the corners of his mouth turn up in appreciation.

“I want your essence,” he says, and his voice is rich with sex. “I want your blood, against mine, in my mouth, I want the scent of it in my nose, I want to taste it when I fall asleep -” He looks at me with a brazen lack of self-consciousness. James Moriarty is exactly who he is.

And fuck is he beautiful.

It takes me less than thirty seconds to decide to give him what he wants.  “James,” I say quietly, “help me.” He quickly looks up to see what I mean, but then I see understanding in his eyes. And just as quickly, he kisses the palm of my hand before pressing the blade of the knife against it. And as he cuts into my skin, he bites into my neck, so I will forever associate the two - the sweet pain of him drawing me out of myself, in more ways than one.

But I can’t lie - when he raises my palm to his lips and sucks the blood from the cut he’s just made, it’s deviantly delicious, fulfilling in ways I hadn’t imagined, and sexy as hell. His blood had been on my lips, and now mine was on his. Watching him lick me, suckle the cut he’d made, watching him run my bleeding palm over the skin of his chest, over the nipples I longed to bite  - I arched against him in spite of myself, and he loved it, loved every minute of my deviance, which, if he hadn’t flat-out created, he’d certainly facilitated. And to make that even more true, I take the knife from him, and as he had, kiss his palm before I draw the knife against it.

His eyes narrow as he watches me, and then his eyes meet mine, and I swear, I’ve never seen him happier or more satisfied than when he sees me do the thing I cannot do.

 


	32. Chapter 32

“Do you ever miss Dublin?” I ask as much to hear his voice as to hear the answer.

“Not so much now. I could never see having a proper Guinness here, though…” His voice has just a touch, the faintest edge of wistfulness.

We’re lying face-to-face, sticky with blood, with cum, saliva, with all of the messy intimacy of sharing ourselves. Words are soft between us.

James reaches to push a curl out of my eyes. “Where did you learn to disarm someone?”

I can’t help but smile at the thought of surprising him, but it fades when I speak. “Self-defense classes. My ex - my ex-boyfriend, he threatened me. I had reason to believe his threats.”

There’s a long, quiet moment. But James is so astute, he never misses a thing.

“Ah, that’s what you meant about having backing, isn’t it, love?”

“About Carlton?”

He nods. “Mmm-hmm.”

I take a long breath, let it out slowly. “Yeah… Yeah, you know, you really find out who your friends are when your boyfriend is charming, and powerful, and well-connected. And hits you.” I try for a note of levity, but it doesn’t quite come out right.

I feel him stiffen. It’s almost imperceptible, but after the last day and night we are tuned into each other, to the slightest movement.

“Oh?” he says, neutrally.

“It was only once. I’m not an idiot. He was drunk and he apologized, but no - never again. I can shoot, too. And I know some jiu jitsu… He’s in jail now, so you know, all’s well that ends well,” I say, unable to keep a note of bitterness from my voice.

James is very still, and I feel rather than hear him take a breath and let it out slowly.

“For hitting you?”

“No,” I laugh, “Of course not. Married state senators do not go to jail for hitting their girlfriends. No. Tax evasion. You can’t hide from the Feds, right?”

James snorts. “A common misconception, my dear. It’s perfectly possible to hide from the Feds if you think...internationally.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not so much if you only think domestically. That’s the problem with being a big fish in a small pond...like California.” He smiles at me and I relax a bit, thankful for the bait and switch. I hate to talk about it, that chapter of my life. It’s...humiliating.

James reaches forward to touch my face, his face suddenly serious. “I should tell you - this is the happiest I’ve been in a very long while.”

I look up to search his face, but I see nothing to undermine his words. “Me, too,” I admit.

His face is grave now, as he looks at me. “I will give you the file, love, and you can do as you will, but just know - if you choose to go on with me, I would never let you come to harm.” He pauses, and there’s a note of grit, of ash in his voice. “I would never let anyone hurt you. Never.” The words are meant to be reassuring but his voice is so flatly pernicious it has the opposite effect and I draw away. He catches hold of me and his touch is incredibly gentle, the complete opposite of his guise just moments before.

_My beautiful enigma. Jesus._

“I love to see you happy, Anaïs. Even a cynic such as myself can’t deny it.”

I’m quiet, letting our words sink in. I’m satiated, and starving, and scared. I’m a wreck, a quiet, still wreck in what was a perfectly functional life just a few weeks ago. And this life, the one he offers in its stead, isn’t mine, not at all.

“I don’t think - I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. Not you -” I glance up at him hastily, but he’s just watching me in that flat, observant way he has that reminds me of something reptilian. “Not you, you know I adore you. You can read me so easily. But this -” I gesture to the view, the vast room, everything it represents. “I find it intimidating. I wasn’t raised to it, and I have to tell you - I couldn’t possibly approve of what makes it possible.” I shake my head. “It’s too rich for me, do you understand?”

James chuckles. “Do you think I was brought up to it? Yes, I went to university, but that was all my own ambition. I needed the credentials to be taken seriously outside of our neighborhood, you see.” He takes my hand and places it on his chest as he turns to look out at the lightening sky. “I always had ambition. I knew there would be a day when I wanted to mix with a better class of people, if for no other reason than to provide cover.” He grins ruefully. “That’s why it was so easy to move to Boston. In the States, class is only a matter of who has the money and who’s had it the longest. Everything I am, I am because I made myself.”

I could listen to him all night, and watch his beautifully expressive face. “Yes, but you were never ordinary. Someone who creates themselves as you have - from that age - that isn’t ordinary.” I look around the room, the luxury, the view stretching over the city, and finally James, looking in the dawn like a debased cherub, his hair askew, his lips puffy and bruised, a streak of dried blood across his cheek. I look away. “You can’t expect someone who is to keep up, James. You can’t pick someone ordinary.”

In that moment, as I hear myself speak, I realize I’ve done the thing I cannot do: I’ve fallen in love with him. _Oh, no. Oh nononono…_

I want to panic or cry, but all I can do in the moment is just look up to meet his gaze. _I’m not cut out for this, really I’m not._ He stares back, seeing everything. And then slowly, so slowly, he leans forward and kisses me with a steely tenderness that would put angels to shame. “Don’t ever say that again in my presence,” he whispers, “ I won’t hear it.” And he covers my lips with kisses so I can’t reply.

****

“So what now?” James asks lazily. He’s rumpled, his hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes sleepy. I love him like this, the polished veneer stripped away by sleep and lust. My hand rests on his naked chest, and I can feel his slow strong heartbeat.

I don’t want to give this up. I don’t want to get out of bed and face reality. But I have responsibilities, and more than that, _I’m afraid._ I can’t fit into James’ life, it doesn’t make sense, and there’s too much to remind me of mistakes I’ve made before. I’ve just finally found myself again - I can’t lose that in the spotlight of a man who rules his world as he sees fit. It’s all too much for me.

“Now you take me home,” I say quietly.

James narrows his eyes, but his voice is easy. “Stay.”

“Tonight, you mean?”

He shrugs. His eyes are dark, fathomless. “At the least.”

I’m caught. I shift so my body rests against him, still a wholly new sensation. What can I say? I wrestle with myself for a moment, and decide just to spill. I’m not good at making things more palatable than they are, anyway.

“I don’t want to be dependent on you. Everything here - it’s all an orbit around you. If I came to you - I don’t want to give you power over my happiness. And that’s what you’d have if I gave myself to you. I just - I can’t do that.”

James nods, narrowing his eyes. “Forgive me - I mean, I’m not an expert in such things, as you might discern, but it seems to me it’s true of anyone, anywhere. “ He gestures to the windows, the view of the seemingly endless people and buildings, all the way down to the bay. “It doesn’t have anything to do with this, it’s just human nature.”

I follow his hands - it’s all mesmerizing, the view outside, the view inside; it’s over-stimulating, actually. I will pay for this later this week, when I feel empty in comparison, when my life feels cold, but in this moment I let myself succumb.

I slide so I am lying on top of James, legs intertwined, my weight on my elbows as I look over his beautiful face.

“Yes, that’s true in a sense,” I say slowly, “but playing games with words doesn’t change anything. You know perfectly well that you are the center of things and that’s exactly how you want it. Me included.”

He smiles up at me, his fingers tracing a line down my spine to my buttocks. “What if we had mutually-crossing orbits?”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’ve no idea, I just want you to stay tonight.”

He pulls me down so my breasts are crushed against his chest, my face in the pillows next to his, and brushes the hair away from my neck. A jolt of pure desire runs down my spine as his tongue and teeth find my neck. “James, stop -” I gasp, “You’ll leave a mark.”

His voice is buried in my skin. “ I already have, I told you I would.”

“No,” I say, protesting with what little will I possess, “not above the collar -”

“I always keep my word, Anaïs.”

I moan with the sheer pleasure of it, of his teeth on my skin, but more so, with the pleasure of giving in.

“Yes, alright, you win -” my voice is strangled, “I’ll stay tonight.”

James pauses only long enough to reply. “Oh, my dear,” he murmurs, “It’s not over, not at all.” And he moves his teeth down an inch in concession.

 


	33. Chapter 33

“Good God,” I say, smoothing down the comforter, “there’s no point washing these sheets. Someone should burn them.”

It’s late afternoon, the shadows across the buildings have lengthened and the wind has picked up across the bay. We’ve slept and ate and made love and napped again and talked of all the kinds of things people talk about when their spirits, no matter how temporarily, are are as intertwined as their bodies.

“Why do you insist on straightening the sheets when you know we’re just going to unravel them?” James teases.

“I can’t help it, it’s a ...not a fetish, exactly. A compulsion. I love a nicely-made bed. I can’t stand bunched covers, or having my toes stick out the end. Ugh. That’s the worst.” I wrinkle my nose.

“You really feel strongly about this, don’t you?” James says, amused.

“I’m afraid I do,” I laugh. “What about you? Besides your suits, I mean.”

James thinks for a minute. “Picture frames. I can’t stand a frame that’s not level. Even if I were going to bomb a house I’d probably have to go around straightening all the frames first.” He laughs.

I look up at him, shocked by his easy use of such a scenario. “ Do you - I mean - have you, have you actually done that?” I ask, my voice faint.

James looks down at me with a mix of pity and affection. Finally he sighs. “I never talk about business indoors. You’ll find I’m compulsive about that, as well. Paranoid, even. But with good reason.”

When I don’t reply, he continues, smiling - not unkindly - at my ignorance. “If you want some good reading, my dear, have a look at a history of the most famous RICO convictions,” he says, speaking of the racketeering legislation passed in the 1970’s that took down the famous Five Families of Mafia lore. “Nearly every one was a matter of carelessness, of speaking when one shouldn’t.”

I nod, wondering why I felt a need to ask such a stupid question.

James is watching me carefully. “That’s not the right question, anyway, is it? Not ‘have I’ but ‘could I’, isn’t that what you’re really asking? I think what you really want to know is am I capable of such a thing.”

I roll his words around for a moment, then nod in agreement. “Yes, I suppose that is more accurate.”

James slides down until we are face to face. My god, he’s overwhelming, just his sheer presence, even now, rumpled, unshaven, bruised. His eyes are the most alive part of his face, warm sparkling gold-brown in the afternoon sun.

“Anaïs,” he says earnestly, “you already know the answer.”

Yes. Yes, I do. But still - “I want you to say it. I want you to tell me the truth about you. I need to hear it from your own voice.”

James taps one restless finger on the headboard as he ponders my request. “Okay. Just this once I will say aloud something that should go unspoken.” I just look at him, taking it in.

He sighs again, and when he speaks his voice is flat, emotionless. “Yes, I am capable of that, yes, I would do that. It’s very likely I will do that or something like that in the future, and while I will have good reason, it will still be my reason. And others - namely you - might not agree with my rationale or use of the word ‘good’. Is that clear enough for you, my dear?” His look would put Roman emperors to shame.

I reach up to touch his face, running my fingers along his cheek. So beautiful.

“Goddammit, James,” I whisper.

He softens under my touch, and reaches up, catching my wrist. “I am what I am, Anaïs. Nothing more, but also - nothing less.”

I pull out of his grasp and pull him to me roughly. “Don’t talk anymore,” I say, taking all my frustration and fear out in my kiss. “Not another word.”

And this time he’s the one to give in.

*****

“I mean it. Stay here.”

“No.” I shake my head, unsettled. “It’s absurd.”

“Oh?” James raises his brows. “Absurd, is it? And why is that?”

“Because -” His look is so intent, I lose my train of thought momentarily --  “I don’t know you, I’ll never know you - and you get bored too easily,” I finish, chastened by his expression.

There’s the tapping on the headboard again. Then he smiles, a wolfish smile. “So you’re afraid I’ll just discard you?”

Dammit. Me and my big mouth.

“Yes.” I’ve already stuck my foot so far up my mouth, I might as well continue. “Yeah. I’ll be completely addicted to you, and you - you’ll need a new toy.” I keep my eyes down at my hands. This is horrifying, admitting this. I should really learn to keep my mouth shut.

James is very quiet. When he finally speaks, it’s in that controlled, dangerous voice I last heard the night he killed two men. The hairs rise on the back of my neck as I listen. “Tell me, Anaïs, do I strike you as a man with a deep need for friends? Lovers? Confidants?”

I shake my head, mortified.

“Well, then. Do you think me incapable of loyalty?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Or maybe you think I have no follow-through?” His eyes narrow. “Maybe I don’t see things through to the end? I’ve no mind for strategy, I’ve got no endgame, is that it?”” His voice is genuinely angry now. “What is it, Anaïs? Tell me. What part of “I don’t believe you” are you actually trying to say?”

I gather myself, then look up to meet his eyes. My jaw is tight when I finally speak. “I believe it’s the part called ‘self-preservation’. And you of all people can’t fault me for that.”

His gaze flickers over my face, taking in everything. When he looks out the window, I see something sad play over his face before he turns back to me, inscrutable. “You’re right, of course,” he says politely. “I can’t fault you for having instincts like my own. Well - then we must play the hand at hand.” He shrugs, and a sadness remains. “It’s all we have. Come here.” He smiles faintly.

And just like that, he pulls me back into his orbit.

****

We don’t sleep much. We rest, we close our eyes, we lean into one another, we stay quiet and still and just listen to the sound of each other breathing. But we don’t sleep, not really. Neither of us wants to dream.

****

In the morning there’s nothing to be done except to get up. Fold away the night, the moments, the sights and sounds of my lover, and tuck them inside, next to my skin. But in the daylight I kiss James one last time and rise in the cool morning air.

 

****

“I have errands,” he says simply when he follows me to the car. “We'll take you across the Bay and drop you at your car. Don’t argue with me today,” he adds, quietly.

And quiet is the order of the morning. Everything has already been said, with or without words. James spends the drive staring out the window, and I follow suit.

It’s a gorgeous drive, across the Bay Bridge and past Treasure Island, descending to the docks of Oakland. At the parking annex of the BART station, Mason circles until he locates my car, and then, to my surprise, drives past and out to the street.

I look to James. His face is blank. “Do you have remote ignition?” he asks. I shake my head. “Hand me your keys,” he says, and holds out his hand. I dig in my bag and pass them over.

He leans forward and hands them to Mason, who promptly gets out, jogs into the parking garage, and a few minutes later, unlocks and starts my car.

Still confused, I look at James for an explanation. He shrugs. “You’re more valuable to me,” he states flatly, and turns away.

It takes a good thirty seconds for the penny to drop. _Jesus Christ._ This is EXACTLY why I can’t live in his world - it’s a cold, pragmatic, ruthless place, where you weigh the value of your loyal employee versus that of your sometime lover in the event of a car bomb. Who the fuck even lives in a world where they think of such things, where such things are possible, no, probable?

James watches my reaction dispassionately. Reaching for his briefcase, he opens it and removes a buff, manilla envelope. “Return this only directly into my hands, or Mason or Tom. No one else.”

I nod, slipping the envelope into my bag. I can’t seem to find my voice, or think of what to say. James, too, looks like he had more to say but has thought the better of it.

“I can walk,” I say, finally. “I don’t need Mason to pull the car around.”

“As you like,” James shrugs.

He seems to be deliberately giving me no guidance here. Whatever happens next, it’s on me. Well, I own this, I chose this course of action. It’s fair, if incredibly uncomfortable.

I sigh. “I’ll call you.”

James just looks at me, his dark eyes revealing nothing.

Suddenly I realize any gesture I could make would be insulting. I dread saying ‘goodbye’, so I don’t. I just nod once more and open the door. “Ciao.”

“Ciao, Anaïs.” says my lovely Irishman, and then I turn away.

The walk to my car seems very long. When I get in, the black town car is gone. The minute I’m seated, the door closed, I crumple into my folded arms and rest upon the steering wheel, bawling. I cry and cry and cry, my only audience the few commuters who somehow find themselves in transit mid-morning. I ignore them, and still the tears come because I don’t need to open any envelope or read any file to know James is my history, not my future. I’ve known it all along, really.

I just couldn’t resist.

And now I must.

 

****

Sebastian hands off his luggage to Mason, who puts the small carry-on and larger gun case in the trunk while Seb opens the back door. To his surprise, James is waiting for him. “Tiger,” he says softly, “How was your flight? Did you get the Boston situation sorted?”

“It’s all in order.”

James nods thoughtfully. “I don’t say it often, but I do rely on you, and I am appreciative of your good judgement, Sebastian.”

Sebastian just stares. What the hell?

As they pull away from the curb, James reaches for Seb’s hand. Seb looks at him closely. “Are you alright, Boss?” He only uses the term when he’s either very angry or very affectionate, and either way it usually rates a smile. Sebastian is relieved to see it still works.

“I gave her the file,” James says, looking out the window.

Sebastian stiffens, frowning. “That file should have been shredded weeks ago.”

“A week ago, maybe. But I knew she would ask for it. She’s got a good mind, Tiger, not the sort of mind to let things go so easily.” James sighs, and seemingly unconsciously, rubs his thumb along Seb’s knuckles. Finally he speaks again. “I think the next period of time is going to be a difficult one. I wish I could have you with me.”

There’s no point in asking questions. James will explain when he’s ready to explain. But it’s strange to see his boss like this, so vulnerable.

The car pulls to the curb in a busy street in the financial district. James nods to the outside. “I have a job for you.” James would never talk about details inside the car, or even a building. He’s fastidious about how he runs his operations, and Seb, and ex-military man, can appreciate that. Besides, those are perhaps his favorite words in all the world. Every job is a means to an end: oblivion. Sometimes for weeks, sometimes just minutes. But in that moment he is completely, absolutely, irrevocably, consumed. A life for a life. That’s how it works.

Once they are walking down the sidewalk, James continues. “I need you to go to Uganda. Same target, different backer.”

Seb just nods.

“You’ve already done your research?” James asks.

Seb nods again. “Of course.”

“There’s been another uprising. The South African faction that wanted to contract with us to take care of that is just too unstable for my taste, plus - “ and here James makes a face like he’s swallowed something unpleasant, “ - their reasoning was so retro, so Germany circa 1943, ugh…But,” he brightens, “I will say their choice of target was spot-on, I mean any way you look at it the Prime Minister is a disaster. So their intelligence was good, there is that,” he muses, more to himself than to Seb.

Seb purposefully keeps his pace slower so his long legs won’t outstride James. It’s largely unconscious, as is the way he pauses deferentially whenever James speaks. Never a man of many words, he finds it easier to listen.

“Anyway -” James waves his hands as if the Prime Minister himself has interrupted his thoughts. “ - a high-ranking US official has asked us to take care of the situation, although he can’t speak officially, obviously. I’ve looked into it and it seems they’re at odds with Britain on this one, but they have to appear to support their allies. All the funding is being channeled through a dummy corporation. Standard.”

Sebastian nods again automatically, but when he glances at James, he’s surprised to see him looking back. Abruptly, Sebastian stops walking. “What is it?”

James just looks at him, unblinking. Finally he looks away, and falls again into stride. “I wish I didn’t have to risk you on this, but it’s too delicate.”

“I’m happy to go, you know that.”

“It’s not your happiness I’m talking about,” James says, dismissively, but something in his voice rings hollow.

At the door of the financial building, tall enough to blot out the sun, he pauses. “Sebastian, please -” He reaches out to touch Seb, thinks better of it, and brushes off his lapel instead. “Be very careful this time, Tiger.”

With that, James turns and walks inside.

Sebastian stares after him for a long, long minute. He’s never seen James this way. Sentiment is a weakness.

Isn’t it?


	34. Chapter 34

The file is every bit as chilling as I had imagined, but far more frightening for the worldwide scale, which I could not have guessed without having James’ genius. The variety of interests and extent of his influence surprises me at first, but when I consider his intellect, his love of a challenge and of a good game, it makes total sense. I try to think of the entire file as an advertising brochure, which actually makes me laugh. “James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal.” Not a bad gig, I suppose, if you have the stomach for it.

I find the file totally fascinating from a personality perspective. James, the enigma. Why these crimes? What did they actually say about him? I am almost to the end when I find a newspaper clipping of Chet Carlton’s suicide notice. Really? Suicide? _Jesus Christ._ Should I be happy? Should I be horrified? I can’t even tell any more, that’s how far my moral compass has been hijacked by James Moriarty. Further, I realize that must have been added after I spoke to Richard Brook. So it was specifically for my perusal. Lovely.

I spend the next few days reading the file compulsively. I am simultaneously curious, attracted - mentally, I tell myself, just mentally - and repulsed. I hesitate to give it back but at the same time I understand why Richard said he didn’t want it in his hands. I’m not a big enough person to take on the responsibility of knowing what really happens in this world. Because James is just one player on the world stage - not the only one, not by a long shot. It felt like everything I’d been raised to believe, every idea of what to strive for, all of my pedestrian, middle-class social mores were being shattered. And I wasn’t ready for that, I didn’t agree to that, not at all.

So I escape. I keep the file with me - or at least in my car - but I set my mind firmly in the moment by doubling my lessons at the barn. I have to pay attention, I have to be in the moment, or I risked great harm. It was a genius solution, at least until I came home still dressed in breeches and boots, my riding crop inadvertently still tucked in my right boot, to find James lounging on the stairs to my condo.

What the actual fuck. I am dumbstruck by this development. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses again, which is so fucking sexy on him I have to bite my lip to remind myself not to react. I've never been more glad to be wearing sunglasses myself. The dogs bound up to him, innocently. “Hello, lads - lads and lassies,’ he corrects himself while patting them generously.

“Moffat, Gatiss, come,” I say, and shepherd them inside. They give me mournful looks when I close the door without them. I settle myself a step below James, but turn my face to the sun. I don’t take off my sunglasses. Hell, no.

“I’m guessing you want the file back?” I say, finally.

James leans back against the steps. His voice is deep, sweet - God, I’ve missed hearing him - “Anaïs - there’s no way you put any of this together without the information I’ve given you. Has it crossed your mind - I gave you the knowledge, and I gave it willingly. Why is that?”

I shake my head. “No. Nope. No, I’m not here to play games with you. You’re at my house, James. It might not be as posh as yours, but you’re the guest, not me. And I don’t have to play.”

He laughs, a genuine laugh, and turns his head to look at me. “Oh! Very good!” he says, amused.

I tap my foot, annoyed. “No, I don’t think you get it, I don’t need your approval, it isn’t very good because you say it’s so. It’s very good because I had a good day, I rode well, my dogs and horses are in good health, and that’s it, that’s enough for me.”

He turns his whole body now and looks at me sharply. “Jesus, Anaïs, four days is a very short time to become a cynic, is it not? Where is the girl with the challenge and the smile that I left behind less than a week ago?”

I answer too quickly. “Left behind. That’s the reality, is it not?”

We stare at each other behind sunglasses. It isn’t satisfying at all.

“You’re angry,” he says mildly. “But you are aware it was your choice to leave.”

In that moment, his lack of response is infuriating. He’s right, I am angry, I’m angry at him for playing so many games with me, and sucking me into his little world; I’m angry at myself for letting him; and most of all I’m furious that after the insane intimacy of last weekend I’m stuck with a giant gaping hole where my contentment used to lie. To hell with him and his smooth answers and easy humor and perfect fucking lips that are killing me right now.

I stand up abruptly. “Let me get it for you.” I can actually feel the pulse in my jaw.

James lets his gaze travel all the way up my body. The sexual current coming off him is so strong it’s like an undertow. “I don’t care about the file,” he drawls, “burn it, throw it out a window, send it to your editor, I really could not care less, my dear.” Even behind sunglasses I can feel the heat of his gaze. “But I must say, I do like those boots,” he purrs, inclining his head ever-so-slightly towards my legs. His lips just turn up at the corners.

I am speechless with anger. I clench and unclench my fist in an effort to keep from literally shaking. Finally I compose myself to say, “Stay here.” I turn and walk inside, and once there I pet my dogs, and gulp in some deep breaths before putting the dogs in their kennels. Straightening, I know what I mean to do now. I am still furious, but my anger is motivating me in a cold, clean way. At least that’s how it feels. It feels - purposeful.

When I step outside James is still sprawled on the stairs, with apparently not a care in the world. I walk to the top step and deliberately stand with my legs apart so I’m towering over him. “Get up.”

He hesitates for just a moment, and then a smile spreads across his face, and he stands. “Yes?”

“Inside,” I respond curtly, and nod at the door. He nods, mockingly, and follows my lead. I walk into my bedroom and he follows, looking around with interest. I leave my sunglasses on my dresser and at my gesture, James does as well. I don’t look at him, not yet. I keep my back to him and let him suss it all out for himself while I pull a few items out of my top dresser drawer. When I turn around, I’ve prepared myself for his gaze, and I meet it flatly. “Take off your clothes.”

“Oh, ho,” he grins, and his eyebrows rise almost comically. I just look at him. He shrugs off his jacket and lays it carefully over the baseboard of the bed.

“No. Put it on the chair,” I wave curtly, and James has a moment, just one moment, of annoyance, and it’s all I can do to keep my glee from showing. But then he moves the jacket, and smooths one hand over his hair, and when he turns back he has his game face on.

He removes his Italian loafers, his socks, and then his tie, all with measured gestures. With great deliberation he unbuttons his shirt, keeping his eyes on me.

I shake my head. “Don’t bother, I’m not here for the show. I don’t have all day. Just take off your clothes already.”

I turn and leave him to strip while I wash my hands and splash water on my face so I don’t feel so grubby after being at the barn. The cool water takes my anger down a notch so that when I come back I can nod in approval at his naked form sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s keeping a neutral face, but his eyes are highly amused. That’s fine, I’d be surprised if I got any other reaction from him. In about five minutes it won’t matter.

“Stand up.” He does, and I stand in front of him. I draw myself up to my full height, and gathering every bit of will I have, I look into his eyes. “You might think you can hide behind your amusement, your arrogance, your smart-ass stare. But if you really want me to see you like you say you do, you’ll drop all of that like your trousers.” I shrug. “It’s up to you.”

 


	35. Chapter 35

I turn away, and let him mull it over. I’ve called him out but I think - I’m pretty sure - that to save face he only has one option. When I turn back with a trio of silk scarves in my hand, I see that I have guessed correctly. He looks appreciatively at the scarves, nodding. It’s still a game; I’ve just taken it up a notch in complexity.

“Hold out your wrists.” I tie a scarf to each, but I don’t restrain him, not yet. “What’s your safe word?”

Now our eyes meet and I see his are almost black, his pupils dilated with anticipation. Just that quickly he’s moved from mirth to arousal. His eyes flicker to my lips and back. “Do you think I’ll need one?” His voice is husky.

I place his arms at his sides. “Don’t touch me,” I say, and step forward until only inches separate our bodies. I lean forward and very deliberately run my tongue over his lips, then his cheek, and finally from the corner of his eye to his temple. I speak softly into his ear. “Need one? You? Nah… But I think one day you’ll want one, that’s the key.”

I step back, and now I’m the one smiling indolently. He nods slowly as the idea takes shape in his mind, and as he sees what I suggest he breaks into an almost ethereal smile. “Raphael.” His voice is as clear and reverent as a church bell.

I look at him for a long moment, his face glowing in the afternoon light. His mind is astonishing. “Raphael,” I repeat, nodding. “God Heals.” I state the ancient meaning of the archangel’s name in the Old Testament, and James positively beams.

“Just so.”

Ah, so there it is. Do I redeem him or corrupt him by this act, or is it myself who will be wounded by the choices I make? Either way, my role is clear, and that will have to be enough. I take a deep breath, gathering myself to myself, and step to him. In some elemental way, I need his strength to do this, to be this person for him.

Scarves trailing from his wrists, he reaches his hands up to hold my face very still while he looks at me. Then he leans forward and offers his lips to me, and when I respond, the hunger overcoming my restraint, I can hear him speaking without words: _Take me, take me wholly, completely, take me as I am and transform me._ I feel the words twisting through his fingertips, in the urgency of his tongue, and while he says nothing aloud we have complete understanding.

“So be it,” I say softly, and turn him to face the bed. I tie each wrist to a middle slat in the base board, leaving enough slack so he can take a grip, but not enough to effectively move. I don’t actually want his arms to fatigue - I might need them later.

I pull the riding crop from my boot and run my hands over it, closing my eyes for just a moment as I savor the person I am about to inhabit. I kiss the riding crop unironically, it’s the medium through which I’m going to change this dynamic and I bless it and ask any higher power to help me execute this necessary violence, this cleansing violence.

I wait until I can separate my voice from the larger voice inside me. My voice wants to cradle James, cuddle him, ask him to forgive him for the pain I’m about to cause. But the larger voice feels no such qualm. When I feel that voice firmly rooted inside me, I step forward and run the crop over his back and down his buttocks. There’s nothing to stop James from turning his head to me, but he keeps it bowed, keeping his eyes downcast.

I run my hand over his skin, feeling the velvet silk I crave, and before I can think, my other hand brings the crop down with a hard, swift crack against the top of his buttocks. I’m truly shocked at how satisfying it is, the sound and the swift color that rises on his skin as he jerks back against the ties. Maybe the first time is always shocking, I muse, or maybe he didn’t really think I’d hit him that hard. Either way it’s surprised both of us. I immediately raise my arm to do it again. The sound is almost visceral, it’s like nothing I’ve heard before.

I run my fingertips over the skin that’s already starting to rise in strips. Three more cracks of the crop and his ass is crisscrossed with lines. Three more after that and the welts have run riot across his skin. I bend down and without touching him with any other body part, run just the tip of my tongue over the angry pink lines, tracing them sweetly. I love the gooseflesh that rises under my tongue and it tempts me, but I have other sensations to create today and I resist the urge to tongue his ass.

Standing again I very lightly run my nails down his back, not to hurt him but just to awaken his nerves. I hear the faintest sound from James, the first yet, and I smile. I step forward and again, with only my tongue, trace a line from the base of neck down his spine. Before my saliva has even dried in the warm air, I smack the crop soundly across his shoulders, on one side and then the other across his scapula. James is no longer jerking against the ties, not really, but there’s an exhale, a verbal exhale, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, with each.

Raising my leg, I run the sole of my boot down the inside of his thigh, and intertwine my leg with his for a moment, while I let the crop fall softly down his back, between his buttocks, and then I guide it to every so gently ride up his balls and underneath his cock. A sharp gasp, and I step back, running the crop down his leg before I smack the back of his thigh with a satisfying crack. I raise my leg again, this time to let him feel the hard leather of my boot between his thighs, again rubbing against his balls. This time I run the sole down his shin and over his toes.

But enough with the boot - I want to see the welts across his thighs, and so I’m swift with the crop now, holding nothing back, and then I switch back to his shoulders, avoiding the his kidneys and spine and focusing on the places he will feel the most with the least consequence.

When all are marked soundly with welts, I step back and admire my handiwork. He’s been largely quiet, just absorbing the sensations, but now, towards the end when I’m leaving second and even third rounds of marks upon his skin, I hear small sounds like growls with each contact. The sounds are so elemental I can feel my skin raise with gooseflesh, and my nipples harden. I take a breath and pause to stretch my neck to each side. Not once has he raised his eyes.

Placing the crop in the outside of my boot, I reach to untie him, but wisely he doesn’t move. With one swift motion, I step forward and take his neck in my teeth the way a cat might, hard, and with hands but not body touching him I run my nails down his chest, over his hard nipples, just as lightly as I did to his spine, but this time I Iet my fingers trace down his groin to his thighs, and I’m rewarded with an audible gasp.

I reach to grasp his cock in both hands to discover he’s hard as a rock, his balls tightly up against his groin. I cup his balls for a moment and grab him lightly to acknowledge it, but I resist the urge to stroke him or stimulate him in any way. With my mouth still on his neck I run my hands up to his jaw and hold him completely still with hands and mouth as I again raise my leg, this time to rub the top of my boot between his ass cheeks so he can feel the smooth leather. The very minute he begins to strain against his ties to rub his ass against me, I drop my hands and mouth and step back so he’s left wanting. I hear the faintest mewling from my lovely Irishman, and smile to myself. That’s exactly how I want him, only more so.

I close my eyes again to center myself and take a breath. I hear James take a breath in with me.

Yes. Perfect. With one hand I reach out to grasp his shoulder and turn him to me. We stare at each other like strangers, like lovers, but like strangers. Neither of us actually knows what the other is capable of, and yet we’re certain it will be delicious, it will be right, we’ll each be seen, in the end, for who we really are. His eyes are huge dark orbs and for once no smile plays anywhere upon his features, yet he’s supremely, elementally gratified. I must look much the same, because he nods, slowly, when he sees my face.

Now we’ve come to the real. The real deal. I take each arm and bend it backwards, tieing him to the bed again so his arms are down at his thighs and he stands facing me. When he’s secured so he really can’t move other than a few inches either side, now I get the smile, the smile of amusement and bliss and thanks all wrapped up into one dazzling grin he gives with arched eyebrows, but then he lets it go and just looks at me with huge dark eyes. I feel rather than hear him ask me to come closer, and he whispers to me, “Raphael.”

I kiss him then, against my better judgement, but it’s just what we each need, as we draw strength from the desire that springs up unrestrained.

It’s his safe word, so I have to ask him if he wants me to continue. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head like it’s a fascinating question and that’s when I realize that James, my James, the one who’s always in control, is really, actually, completely spun. His brain must be positively floating in endorphins at the moment. It’s astonishing but I file it away to consider later; what’s needed now is action, not thought.

“James,” I say softly, “you need to tell me yes or no.”

 


	36. Chapter 36

He blinks rapidly, focusing on me. “Yes, yes, go on…”

I step back and look over his body. I have to be more subtle, more cautious now with where I strike him and how much force I use. At the same time I want to keep him floating in this endorphin high as long as I can, I want him to be positively flying. I’m getting a kind of contact high myself, from his energy and from the knowledge that he is standing before me absolutely naked - I can do anything I like to him in this moment. Anything at all. And he loves it.

I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, he’s watching me. I pull the riding crop out of my boot and trace it over his chest, his nipples that I want to bite until they bleed. He sees the look on my face and feeds off of it, the energy between us rising rapidly. I tap the crop sharply on each nipple but don’t stop there, instead I trace down his navel, over his cock, now at half-mast but rapidly hardening as I trace the flat leather end of the crop over the length of his shaft.

Running the crop over his thighs I alternate between quick taps and the bite of actual smacks across his thighs, and after the third welt rises, James breaks into near-hysterical laughter. He looks at me from eyes so huge he appears to be rolling on E, and I guess it isn’t much different, this chemistry we’ve created.

I have a sudden, strong desire to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth. This is its own form of power, is it not? I tuck the crop back into my boot and run my nails lightly down his chest, then grab his hips to keep him still and I sink down before him, just the tip of my tongue running down the hot, swollen skin of his cock. I feel him involuntarily jerk on his bonds, and I smile. He’s watching me, every motion, with lips parted and full. I take the head of his cock between my lips, savoring the power I have to hurt him or bring him to ecstasy, and I run my teeth over the sensitive skin just as a reminder. As if he needs one. His face is flushed, his breathing rapid.

I leave him on that note, and stand to face him. With one look I tell him what I’m going to do next, and I see his eyes light up, thinking, as I do, of the last time it occurred, and both of us catch our breath as I open my hand and slap him across the mouth as hard as I dare. I don’t want to bruise him this time, or leave a mark; just remind him of the erotic charge of our last exchange. It rocks his head to the side and he laughs again, euphoric. “The other side, Anaïs, the other side…” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. I look at him coolly, and he raises his eyebrows. “I forgot the magic word, I forgot, please my darling, please I’m saying please…” And I do as he asks, because it feeds me, some strange, unknown part of me that loves to feel him submit to the pain I create.

He watches me, giggling, as I pull the riding crop out of my boot. I have to be careful here, with so many vital organs and veins, arteries and joints in this area, so I grip the shaft of the crop halfway up and aim a very sharp but not hard smack against his right nipple, and I can almost feel the sting as it lands. James sinks down for just a moment, his eyes closed, and when he straightens I repeat it on his left nipple, and surprising him I quickly lower the crop and smack him, hard, across a raised pink welt on his thigh. He draws in a breath and see in his face that while he would never give in, I’ve reached the maximum effectiveness of pain for the moment. He’s giggling again, blinking rapidly, his eyes huge and shining. I rub the crop over his body lovingly - I would absolutely love to create welts across his stomach, but it’s much too dangerous, I can’t risk it in my inexperience. I settle for tucking the crop away and running my nails down again, this time with intent, really digging in when I come down from his waist. One way or another I will mark this man, this infuriating, enigmatic, beautiful man.

I continue the path of my nails over his hips, and tiny drops of blood spring forth in my wake over the sharp bones. I lighten up to just shivers over his thighs, and lean forward to run the tip of my tongue over the red rivulets. Dangerous? Yes. Insanely satisfying, hell yes. We’ve already exchanged blood, so be it. I want to taste him.

The faint glimmer of copper in my mouth sets me rocking back on my heels, the visceral memory transposed over the intimacy of this moment until my heart is pounding in my ears. Looking up, I meet his eyes and I see him nod, slowly, as he watches me take it all in, the truest vision of each of us I’ve seen yet.

Slipping my hands around his cock, I let go of the need to wound and let the desire to own him guide me instead. He sinks back, eyes closing, as he lets himself fall into the feeling of his cock sliding into the wet heat of my mouth, my hands stroking him, cupping his balls as they tighten. His lips open, mimicking mine, as he groans with pleasure. The tightness of his skin tells me he’s close, on edge now, and I let my fingers edge towards his ass.

I open my eyes and look up his body to his face, flushed with desire. I hold his gaze as I slide my fingers inside his anus, his eyes widening, his hips straining now to meet me as the rhythm of my hands reaches a climax, and then there’s a shout of primal submission as he’s caught in the throes of his orgasm, his cock spurting into the back of my throat, his head thrown back as he comes, his wrists tight against his silk bonds.

I suckle him to the end, his cum hot and salty in my mouth, and then I rise and grab him roughly by his hair, his eyes drunk with sensation. I press my lips against his, forcing him to open his mouth, and when he does, when he tastes himself on my tongue, he grabs my lips hungrily between his teeth and sucks my tongue in a mirror of what has just occurred. My head feels almost disconnected from my body, I’m so high from the energy pouring off of him, and our breaths mingle as I rest my forehead against his, letting it wash over me.

Straightening, I reach to untie him, and as he sags against my chest he lets out a last shuddering sigh. Cupping his face in my hand, I feel the wetness of his eyes against my breasts, and I hold him steady until he blinks and takes a breath, drawing himself back into himself, protected. But something has changed between us, and James simply acquiesces as I lead him to the shower and then to my bed, my fingers smoothing salve over his skin.  He relaxes under my touch, and finally, so do I, our breathing even and regular as the late afternoon sun washes over the room.

“Raphael.”

I’m confused - is he dreaming? There’s no need to use a safe word now. Turning, I lean in to hear him.

“No,” he whispers without opening his eyes, ”You silly girl.”

“What?”

“You’re Raphael. You’re my Raphael,” he repeats, and when I touch him, he sighs and turns, slipping into sleep.

 


	37. Chapter 37

“I can’t stay. I’m leaving on a business trip. That’s what I came to tell you, before you ordered me into your bed.” He takes my hand from his chest and kisses it. I’ve been lying in bed, listening to him breathe; I thought he was asleep. “I’m already quite late. I just wanted a few minutes to be with you here...in this way.”

“You mean in a completely ordinary way?” It comes out before I can stop myself.

“No… I mean, yes, in a way - but only because there’s a small space here where…” Uncharacteristically, he grapples for words. “It’s quiet here. I can be heard without shouting,” he says, finally.

I don’t want him to leave. I don’t know what I want; my brain’s coming down off a rush of intimacy like I’ve never known and it cries out feebly that it won’t survive without more of the same, while another part protests that I won’t survive this level of intimacy anyway.

“Where are you going?” I ask, as much to distract myself as to hear his plans.

He’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he’s pondering how much to tell me. “Uganda. I have a - delicate - situation there and I’m afraid that perhaps it’s not being handled with the attention it requires…” his voice trails off.

“And you have to fix it?” I try to keep the irony out of my voice, but I fail.

He turns to me now so we can see each other in the half-light. “Yes, Anaïs, I have to fix it. That’s what I do.” His voice is soft, but immovable.

I sift through my conflicted feelings, coming up with questions I hate asking. “Will you be in danger?” I ask quietly.

He smiles then. “You’re so sweet, my dear. Please - don’t ever ask me that again.” It’s a dismissal.

“I’ll ask what I want, James.” I won’t be censored by this man, no matter how intense our connection.

He sighs. “Every successful organization has a few individuals that make it possible. The lynchpins of the structure. I have men I rely upon. And - “ he shifts, restless now, “one of my lynchpins has... fatigued, I suppose you might say. I’m concerned. I foresee problems that haven’t yet occurred. But I’m rarely wrong about such things.” He sounds sad, and I wonder how that kind of personal emotion can possibly fit in with business. There’s so much about him I don’t know, or understand. I look over his face, memorizing it as best I can.

I don’t ask him when he’s coming back - by all rights, I shouldn’t even be here with him now, much less in the future. Besides, I’m afraid if I say anything further, I’ll start crying. I’m a wreck inside. _Jesus Christ, this man will be the death of me._

James reads me like a book. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, beauty girl,” he says softly, and runs his fingers over my face with an aching sweetness.

In my state of mind, James being tender is almost as scary as James being the supremely arrogant man who jokes about bombing houses and hiring call girls. It’s like there’s no boundaries on either side - where ordinary people would stop, he just keeps going, both deeper and further than any ordinary psyche’s map.

I shudder involuntarily, though from my thoughts or his touch, I couldn’t say. I realize he is memorizing my face, as well.

“James,” I say when I find my voice, although it’s barely above a whisper, “I don’t burn from the inside like you do.”

I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I can’t be the person who would follow him into the unknown and that I’m sorry for that in so many ways...

I am horrified to feel tears spring to my eyes and hope that he doesn’t see them, but he’s James Moriarty and he misses nothing. He rubs his thumb over the wetness at the edge of my eyes while a strange mixture of emotions plays over his face, finally settling in a half-smile. “Ah, so that’s two of us in this thing, at least.” And he rubs the tears on his thumb over my lower lip before leaning to kiss it.

I let the kiss consume me, just his once, just this last time, isn’t that how it works? I can’t do this, I simply can’t. _Goddammit James, I told you from the beginning, I’m not cut out for this…._

When we break apart I have retrieved myself from the great, vast void underneath my feet, and I can speak as if I am a whole human being. “You should go,” I say, and he is already standing up, wincing from the welts crisscrossing his beautiful body.

“These will make for a lovely flight,” he jokes, and then he’s dressing and I can see his mind is already on the future.

I want to say goodbye in some way that makes sense, but, like last time, everything sounds absurd. I say nothing until, wrapped in my robe, I am standing at the front door. I reach up and kiss him on the forehead, whispering “Ciao,” and he smiles.

“Ciao, Anaïs,” he says, and then I’m shutting the door behind him, but I can’t resist moving to the window to watch him walk away. Halfway down the path, he turns and looks at me directly.  Of course he knew I’d be standing there, I fume to myself, feeling caught out. But something in his glance before he turns away tells me he’s not gloating.

And then, just like that, James Moriarty is gone.

****

For three days I simply watch the play of sunlight on the walls of my bedroom as the day progresses and then gives in to night. I let the dogs out, I drink a glass of water, I collect the mail from where it fell through the slot onto the floor. And that’s all. I don’t cry, I can’t cry, no - not for a man so cold, so ruthless, so calculating; not even for a man so protective, so thoughtful, and so funny. No more tears. I will not cry. I have to wean myself from this and the only way I know is to simply stop.

On the fourth day I walk the dogs and eat breakfast. On the fifth day I leave the house and go to the barn. And on the sixth day, feeling positively victorious, I  head to the racetrack to see my horse race.

And he races well, my sweet boy, giving all he’s got and coming in second by a nose. God, I love him. I stand near the winner’s circle, watching as his driver turns him for a cool down, and then, just as ordinary as anything ever is, he’s claimed. Claiming races are a necessary evil in this sport, but every owner hates them unless they're trying to dump an injured animal on an unknowing market. Anyone can put up the price of the horse prior to the race, and if his slip is pulled - bingo, he wins ownership. It’s designed for a good purpose, to keep races from being flooded with horses far more talented than the race class, but you know what? It still sucks.

I’m standing listening to the announcement over the loudspeaker - all claims are announced with the results of the race - in such astonishment I have to literally remind myself to shut my mouth, when a groom I don’t know hooks a lead to my horse’s halter and walks him, still sweating with effort, to some other trainer’s barn. I will not be allowed to touch him or say goodbye in any way. My bank account is 15k richer but my heart has fallen through a hole at my feet.

It’s just too much, this week. I turn away to stare at my program wordlessly before anyone can see my dismay. There’s no doubt the next owner will bump him up in class; he’s been racing well and should be competitive. There’s no way I’ll be able to afford to claim him back. I bite my lip with the effort not to cry. _Goddammit._ That’s the racing game, I remind myself. _Risk nothing, win nothing._

My phone chimes. I’m sure it’s Dell, either to comfort me or, more likely, already lining up another hopeful to hoover down my newly flush account. I’m not ready to talk about it. No matter how much I love this game, I hate it in equal measure.

But when I check my phone, it isn’t my trainer at all. An unknown international number text: DON’T WORRY, I’LL FIX IT.

In my astonishment, I almost drop the phone. I glance all around the grandstand, but I see nothing unusual, no one staring at me, and certainly not the face I imagine. I chide myself for being so silly - did I really think he’d be here, somewhere?

But almost as quickly as that rushes through my brain, it’s followed by another: If not him, than who? Someone or someones who reports back to him in real-time. The thought is chilling.

_Think, Anaïs. Is this really so shocking? From the man who rescued you outside the nightclub, the man who knew when you dropped your dogs off at the sitter, who knew where you’d be at any given time, who knew you’d ordered a background on him from your P.I.? Did you really think he’d let something of his go so easily?_

_And there’s part of you that sensed it, isn’t there? The car pulling out behind you, the man in line to buy a racing program - but you were too busy feeling numb to pay attention…_

Dammit! I just barely stop myself from throwing down my phone in frustration. _Think, think_ , I say to myself, but my heart is pounding. It’s all I can do to make the requisite small talk with acquaintances as I make my way through the crowd to the exit gate. I walk directly to my car, resisting the urge to glance behind me. It’s lucky the drive home is short, because I see none of it.

I walk the dogs on auto-pilot, and once inside, when they have settled and I have a fire and a very large glass of wine, I finally take a breath.

Two thoughts: What does he mean by, _I’ll fix it_ …? The simple answer would be to simply claim the horse back when he races next week, but that answer has two flaws. One, It’s too easy, and two, why would he spend his own money when he could be spending someone else’s? He’s a businessman, he didn’t get to where he is by throwing large sums of money at a problem as a solution. (Well, large to me, anyway.) Not strategic, Anaïs, not clever enough.

 **  
**Second thought - What, exactly, is happening in Uganda?


	38. Chapter 38

Sebastian isn’t too drunk to hear the click of the hotel room door lock, but he doesn’t move from his comfortable chair, a tumbler of good Jameson in hand. The young Ugandan girl kneeling between his knees fellating him never hears the sound, and he does nothing to alarm her - he’s put layers between himself and the outside world that only one man can penetrate, and if by chance his unannounced visitor isn’t James Moriarty, well, by God, every man has his hour, does he not? And Sebastian Moran would never flinch from death, not when they’re such close compatriots.

“Jaysus, Tiger.” The Irish drawl is particularly pronounced as James strides into the suite, dropping his key card on the dresser.

The girl, surprised, jerks back, much to Seb’s annoyance. “Christ, would you watch yourself?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Tiger, what do you expect from such a child?” James pulls a wad of bills from his billfold and drops them, literally, on her lap. “Leave.” Her face as she looks up to his is terrified. He sighs. “Go.” She scrabbles to pull herself together and grab the bills as she almost runs from the room.

“She’s of age,” Sebastian protests, as he pulls up his boxers over his now semi-hard cock, but there’s no heart behind it. It’s neither here nor there, really.

“For the love of all that’s holy, Sebastian, have you not considered the spread of AIDS in this country? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you really were just a pretty face. You can be quite stupid sometimes.” James unbuttons his linen jacket and throws it over the nearest chair, annoyed.

Sebastian raises his chin. “Didn’t have it in her cunt, did I, then? For fuck’s sake, James, you’re one to talk, you with your _latest acquisition_.” The last two words positively drip with contempt.

“Oh?” James raises his eyebrows. “Is that your rationale? I’m disappointed in you. So petty. So... unoriginal.” He shakes his head, slowly. “You used to have such a good mind. Pity you’re wasting it with scenes like this little low-brow farce.”

Sebastian says nothing, but gets up and pads to the mini-bar, aware, as always, that James can never help but look at him.

“Yes, I do fancy a drop, thanks for asking,” James says in the silence, watching the sparse, graceful movements of Sebastian’s body. It’s a weakness, how he feels about Seb, the desire the lanky redhead inspires in him without fail. Even after all this time.

Sebastian finds himself dutifully pouring a neat Jameson for James as well as himself out of - what? It’s more than habit, it’s more than duty, although both are in the mix. _It’s so hard to sort out things these days,_ he thinks to himself. It’s like all his personas have blurred into one watercolor, all the edges bleeding out.

James accepts the tumbler with a nod. “I couldn’t care less where you play your flute, Sebastian, except that I’d share the consequences of your reckless behavior - don’t be so pedestrian.” James frowns in distaste. “I didn’t come here to have a domestic dispute, you know, it’s beneath me.”

“Oh? And why did you come, then, Jaime? To check up on me? Or did you miss me, love?” Seb mocks.

James answers quietly. “It’s a sad day when I have to check your work Tiger, a sad day indeed. But that day is upon us.”

Seb snorts, “Go on, then. It’s a load of bullocks you’ve dreamt up.” He stalks to the dresser and grabs a pack of cigarettes laying there with his pocket change and utility knife. Tapping out a fag, he searches for his zippo lighter, only to find it on the floor. He leans down to retrieve it and enjoying James’ look of disapproval, lights up indoors.

James is suddenly furious at the entire situation. “You fucking imbecile, I specifically asked you to take care, specifically asked you -”  his voice rises in anger - “TO TAKE FUCKING CARE, TIGER, THIS ONE JOB, TO DO IT RIGHT.” He takes in a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. “And you haven’t. You haven’t! And what do I find? You’re wasting your nerves and your mind and your GIFTS on the drink, and young girls every night… Jesus CHRIST, Tiger.” James turns away, disgusted by the look of shame on Sebastian’s face.

James walks to the french doors off the balcony and throws them open, taking a long sip of the whisky as he steps out. He unbuttons the collar of his shirt with his free hand, and then, feeling the still damp heat of the African night air, unbuttons it all the way down. The sweat trickling between his shoulder blades makes the welts sting like a nun’s switch, and James distracts himself by staring up at the sky. The stars are really magnificent here, the constellations shining out like a story written in the days of the gods and their champions. James searches the night sky for those lesser-known, the work soothing to his mathematical brain. He feels rather than hears Sebastian come up behind him, but he doesn’t turn.

“The air here smells so particularly itself,” James says, quietly. “It’s like Africa has a richness, a loam - as if from the decaying bones, the ancestors of humanity. It smells brick-red,” he says for Seb, who thinks visually, not abstractly as James does. But Seb doesn’t answer.

A tiny pinprick of fear presses against James’ throat, down low, at the hollow just below the jugular. What in the hell is happening to Sebastian? There was the disaster at the nightclub - unforgivable, you don’t lose a target when she goes to the restroom, for fuck’s sake - and the Boston fiasco, and a half-dozen smaller but still incredibly telling mistakes, something that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago. But his judgement has been clouded when it comes to Seb, he realizes. The signs were there, the small errors in judgement or execution, but he couldn’t admit it, not his Tiger - no.

James takes a long drink of the whisky, the warmth filling his mouth and smoothing down the fear in his throat. Sebastian has stepped to the balcony now, and stands beside him, dressed only in his boxers and and an undershirt. Even in his subdued state, he radiates a masculinity, a ferocity never far from the surface.

“Do you remember the last time we stood under this sky together, Tiger?” James asks quietly, after a moment.

Sebastian turns his head then, so that James can see his profile, the square jaw stubbled with ginger hair, the high-cheekbones that speak to Sebastian’s German ancestry, but his voice is pure Irish. “D’ya think so little of me, Jaime? D’ya think, now, do you, that I’m so pissed I wouldn’t remember such a day? I’d a mind to be ashamed of myself a tick ago, but Jesus -- it’s you who should be ashamed of saying such a thing.” The whisky has made his voice rough, his accent exaggerated, but he doesn’t care. It feels good to say something he actually feels, aloud.

James watches Sebastian for a moment more. Jesus, but he’s well-made, all broad shoulders and taut waist, slim hips that suddenly make James flush with recollection. He turns away and takes another long sip, savoring the burn of the alcohol.

“What is this all about, really? You’re angry with me, Tiger, but it’s not me who’s changed.”

“Oh, no?” In one explosive moment, Sebastian has James by the collar, facing him with his back to the railing. James holds the tumbler over the balcony in a grimly humorous gesture and laughs. Sebastian shakes him, just enough to get his attention. “No? You’ve found a new partner, have you now, one deserving of your attention? How bloody lucky for her,” he spits out. “Have you mentioned it’s a life-indenture, Jaime? Have you told her the truth, then? Have you told her all she has to give up is all she ever had? Or were you too busy _kissing_ her to mention it?”

James just laughs again, his eyes shining. “Ah, so now we cut to the chase, Tiger. Can I just mention - just a wee, small mention here - that it was never me who sought to stop kissing you. You do recall that, aye? And now, now you’re jealous? Twenty years have passed, Sebastian Moran. Twenty years. And you’re just now bringing this to my attention? By Christ, you’re slower than I thought.”

And instead of angering Sebastian, the insult has a calming effect. He knows better, he really does, than to grapple with James in a war of words. Besides, it doesn’t mean anything. Too much water has flowed under the bridge to start rowing upstream now. Disgusted, he drops James back onto the balcony and moves to turn away.

“Sebastian -” James grabs his wrist. “How can you be angry at me in this place? This is the place where our time began again, the place where I found you again. Can you not remember how it was between us?” His voice has an urgency Seb hasn’t heard before.

Sebastian pulls his wrist away. “Has it ever occurred to you, Jaime, that I regret your actions?”

“My actions? I saved your life!” James sputters, indignant.

“My point exactly,” Sebastian says, his voice dead sober now.

And for once in his life, James Moriarty is speechless.

He stares at Sebastian for a long, long moment, and then turns away, one arm wiping the humid sweat off his brow as he stares up to the constellations.

“Jaime -”

“You’re drunk, Sebastian. You always were a maudlin drunk. The curse of the Irish, is it not? Do you remember the night you got drunk and cried like a schoolgirl when you thought I would leave you for that foolishness with the little brown-haired lass?” When Sebastian doesn’t reply, he continues, “Big choking sobs, your face was so red, red with blotches, and you couldn’t even speak by the end. Do you remember?”

James turns back to find Seb staring at him, shoulders slumped with resignation. Sebastian nods and looks away, mortified. Suddenly James is furious again, but this time he counts backwards from ten until he can speak in a level tone. “But in the end, it wasn’t me who left, was it, Tiger? I could forgive your folly, but you just couldn’t find it in your heart to forgive mine. It fucking killed me when you went into the Army, Sebastian. It fucking killed me. And when I found you again, and you were a pale shadow of yourself, and I brought you back to me, and I gave you every piece of yourself back -” and here he can’t control the bitterness from seeping in - “I am so sorry that after all of that, you regret my actions.” He finishes the Jameson in one long draught.

Stalking past Sebastian through the french doors, James doesn’t look at him. “It’s late. Come to bed,” he says over his shoulder.

And Sebastian follows, follows the man who has shaped his entire destiny. In bed, as is his custom, Sebastian curls around James, holding the smaller man to his chest protectively. He’s shocked by the quiet sadness when James speaks again. “You broke my heart, Sebastian. _You fucking broke my heart._ ”

And James takes a long breath and wills himself to relax, to sleep, and prays, as he does every night, to have no dreams.


	39. Chapter 39

It isn’t really hard at all to figure out what James meant by his little enigmatic text since that very night the trainer who claimed my horse has a barn fire, apparently due to faulty electrical wiring. Yeah. And miraculously, some unknown Good Samaritan lets all of the horses out, so not a one is harmed. Even more amazing, the trainer has no insurance. So, late the next day, I get a call asking if I’d like to buy my horse back for less than he was claimed.

_Good Christ._

I can’t even - I’m not - this, this is what’s wrong with falling in love with James. Granted, the trainer was a slick son-of-a-bitch who cheated grooms and bettors alike, and granted, his horses raced through pain due to his love of performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals, but - no. Just no. This was an unacceptable solution.

And my second question had to wait another five days, while I looked over my shoulder everywhere I went and cursed James each time. I welcomed my good boy back to the barn, rode my show horse to my trainer’s moderate, but sincere, enthusiasm, sold my article to the vast relief of my bank account, walked the dogs, and checked the internet news regularly. Finally the BBC told me what I’d already guessed: The Prime Minister of Uganda, responsible for legislation that barred the repayment of loans to the US and UK, was killed in a tragic motorboat accident while taking an uncommon day of vacation with his family on Lake Victoria. I believed that about as much as I believed in the Tooth Fairy - I was rapidly becoming a cynical motherfucker, but I tried to think of it as giving in to an overall necessity of pragmatism.

And in this state of mind - teetering between resigned and aggressively matter-of-fact - I just shake my head when I see the black town car pulled to the curb outside my condo. This time it’s Tom who steps out and nods at me. I’m so cranky by now I just toss him my house keys. “Grab my purse, would you? It’s in the foyer.” Tom nods, and I add, “And my Ugg boots, if you don’t mind. I need comfy shoes.” He nods again, and I walk the dogs down to the end of the path and back, and when we return, I ask them to jump into the backseat, and trusting souls that they are, they do as I ask.

I slip off my sandals and pull on my sheepskin boots. I can’t help but feel a thrill at the base of my spine at the thought of seeing James again, but every other part of me regards that as a betrayal. _Jesus, no._ No. This is out-of-control, totally unacceptable. This has to stop. _No more tears_ , I remind myself. _Don’t tempt fate by getting involved again, it won’t end well, my dear._ I pull my dogs to me and stare out the window as the miles pass.

We exit at the airport but we instead of pulling up to the main terminal we exit to a side road and pull up to a private plane. Oh, really? What the fuck ever. Of course I’m fascinated, nothing in my past life has ever prepared me for flying in a Gulfstream and of course it’s a thrill, but god, it’s so cheap to try to buy my affection this way - not just my love of well-made things, but my innate curiosity. It makes me angry even as I’m checking out every detail of the plane.

James, being James, has thought of every single thing and the dogs sink down at my feet on sheepskin beds. I sigh, resigned, and the flight attendant - did James plan this as well? - an absurdly sexy man probably ten years my junior with close-cropped kinky dark curls, cappuccino skin and a jawline that hasn’t been seen since Pacino in the Godfather - brings me a tequila and red bull with a shot of Patron on the side. I look up at him in shock, and he just smiles. “I was told to help you relax, miss,” he says, but the nature of his smile and the rise of his salon-sculpted brows tell me he’s happy to help me in any way I might need. _Jesus._ I really hate James right now.

I drink both, and you know, it does help. From what I gather, I have a six-hour flight ahead, so I ask for water and Patron, and when the sexy youngster tells me he’s a certified massage therapist, well - who am I to blow against the wind? I end up crashing for an epic three-hour nap, and when I wake up, I’m treated to a towel-bath and a latte. A set of cozy sport-fleece pants and jacket waits for me along with silk underclothes. “Where exactly are we headed?” I ask when I see my clothing choice. “Canada, miss,” he replies, terse.

I wonder if James has any idea of how much I hate snow.

And snow is exactly what I get. We land at Montreal, but the Range Rover takes me deep into the countryside, until we arrive at a secluded cabin - well, cabin is a small word for it, but at least in essence - in a deep snow-covered pine forest overlooking a frozen lake. The sky is the brightest of blues, and the air crisp with pine, the sunshine glinting off the frozen landscape in a bright kaleidoscope of geometric snowflake patterns. I follow my escort up the path between the car and cabin while the dogs frolic in the fresh snow. “I’ll be happy to watch them, miss,” he says, and I just nod. I have no idea who he is. I wish I still smoked.

I’m now somewhere between sincerely tired and resentful - like I have nothing better to do than just show up at this place I would never, ever, in a million years choose as a vacation locale to see a man I have no business being around, no matter what the context?

When I walk into the Great Room, I can’t help but stare, open-mouthed, in astonishment. Like the park lodges of old, it has huge, wooden beams soaring two stories above, old-growth wood for flooring and walls, expressive yet modest furnishings in the arts and craft style, ending in a magnificent view out over the snowy landscape to the impossibly impenetrable frozen lake.

James stands at the very end of the room, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand, staring out at the view. He’s a small figure in the setting but to his credit, his remarkable magnetism presents him as the center of a dramatic tableau, rather than as a player. It takes a lot to draw someone’s attention away from Mother Nature, and I wonder if she resents him for it. He turns when he hears me, and smiles. “Anaïs.”

I smile despite myself, but keep my distance. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“Of course not.” He moves to me, but I step back, instinctively. _No._ I cannot, I will not do this.

I raise my hands. “We have to talk.”

James raises his eyebrows, but smiles smoothly and takes a step back and holds up his hands, echoing my gesture. “As you like.”

I take a breath and realize I am well and truly angry. I try to keep my voice calm, but it cracks halfway, “You ruined that trainer, James! You fucking ruined him! You are not allowed to do things like that, it really isn’t okay, can you not understand that?”

James looks at me with narrowed eyes. “He was a cheater, he doesn’t matter! He took money from your grooms and caused your horses pain and you see fit to rebuke me?” He stares at me with astonishment, that I could be so thick.

“No, James, that isn’t the point. You don't get to decide everyone's lives like that, you just don’t. He might have been an absolute bastard, but he won my horse fair and square, and he didn’t deserve to have James Moriarty come after him for doing what trainers do every day.”

“Oh?” James looks at me with a quiet anger I’ve never seen before. “Fair and square, you say? You think so?” He turns away, disgusted, but not before shrugging his shoulders. “You’re so naive, Anaïs.”

That’s the final straw. My life was FINE, fucking FINE before he stepped in. I stride up to him and grab him by the shoulders, spinning him around. “Yes,” I hiss, “Of course I am. And HOW FUCKING DARE YOU CALL ME OUT ON IT?” My voice has actually risen to the ceiling, an impressive accomplishment given the structure of the building.

James looks at me for one long moment, unblinking, his eyes vast pools while his considers what I’ve said, and then - he throws his head back, laughing. “My god, Anaïs, your lack of knowledge is truly your saving grace, is it not?”

I resist the urge to hit him mainly because I know he would enjoy it. “You are so incredibly rude,” I spit, “and further - YOUR lack of knowledge shows in the fact that you were and are incredibly hurtful, and you know what? That’s exactly why I can’t be with you.”

I take a deep breath, and look James in the eye, “You hurt people. That’s what you do, and maybe - maybe that’s even who you are.” I step back as he looks at me, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask to be here, James. Send me my dogs and leave us the fuck alone.”

“This is how the world works, Anaïs.” he calls after me, the words echoing off the rafters as I walk away.

“No, James, this is how YOUR world works. It isn’t my world at all.”

I walk down a side hall, guessing the layout, until I find what is obviously a guest room and pace until my lovelies race in, still enthused over their snow frolic. They’re wet, and doggy, and incredibly comforting as I lie on the bed and bury my head between them, breaking my first promise to myself as the tears run down my face.

 


	40. Chapter 40

It’s dark when I wake up but the moon shining off the snow illuminates my room in a cold, silvery light. The dogs just yawn and roll over, buried in the comforters, as I stretch and stand up. I’m still in my stupid fleece and my mouth is dry from falling asleep with a nose stuffed up from crying. I find a bathroom next door and blow my nose and splash cold water on my face. Feeling slightly more human, I head to the main hall in search of a glass of water. The kitchen must be off of it somewhere.

The Great Room, with its two-story windows, is lit by the moonlight as if it were day, only with a cool white light that creates strange shadows throughout the hall. I think I see things that aren’t there and vice versa, so I actually look twice before I realize that James is sitting on a corner of a sofa before the windows, dressed only in a dressing gown. The same heavy tumbler of whisky sits on the mission-style table beside him. He looks up at me, and speaks softly. “Come sit with me, my dear.”

I can’t refuse him, his voice is too alluring and too sad. Hearing James sad frightens me; he’s the one always in control, always planning, always amused. This is new, and strange, and unwelcome.

I sink down onto the sofa and bury my head in his neck as he strokes my hair. It takes all of my will not to cry again. He kisses my temple lightly as I sit up, and then I’m looking into those remarkable eyes again, and I almost shiver with recognition.

I look away, quickly, before I get lost. “I can’t share your glass, I don’t have a taste for whisky tonight. Let me just grab something to drink.”

“Take your time, I’ve no plans to leave,” he replies.

In the kitchen I poke around the refrigerator until I’ve made a plate of cheese and crackers and the like, and I open a good bottle of Bordeaux for myself and carry both to the Great Room with my wineglass. I sit upon the thick Persian carpet by James’ knees, and sip my wine while he speaks.

“When you have a great deal of power, my love, there comes a place, a line you cross, where you can never go back. It becomes almost impossible to give it up and remain safe. Even if I wanted to - and in the interest of disclosure, let me just say that I do not - even if I wanted to give up the power I have it would be signing my own death warrant. And that doesn’t interest me in the least.”

It strikes me as a very strange way to start out a conversation, but I nod.

He runs his hand through my hair absentmindedly. “The things I love about you are the things I will take from you over time; I know this, but knowing it doesn’t stop it, it doesn’t change anything except to create a certain resignation. When I say you are naive, when I say your lack of knowledge is your saving grace - they’re both qualities that spring from the same well as your spontaneity, your sincerity. The things about you I value most. Is it really my place to take away one, knowing it depletes the other?”

I don’t know what to say, I’m shocked by his quiet words, and distressed. I cover it, sensing I will only make things worse, and sip my wine. “Why are you feeling so philosophical tonight,” I ask, finally. “It isn’t just me, is it? What’s happened?”

He turns his head to look at me now, his voice urgent. “But that’s just it, don’t you see? I can’t tell you, can I, without changing you irrevocably. Maybe not tonight, but piece by piece. Over time. That’s the dilemma. And then, on top of that, you say you want honesty, you would hate me were I to lie. So what shall I do, Anaïs, except sit here and say nothing, and explain nothing, and that, too, will make you unhappy.” He blinks, and frowns. “I have finally devised a game I can’t win.”

There's a long moment of stillness between us. I can scarcely believe my ears, and James looks equally taken aback by his own words.

I reach to touch him, and to my surprise, he takes my hand. After a moment, he continues. “You say I had no right to influence that trainer’s life. This is where you and I part company, my dear, at least philosophically. I say that everyone influences everything they touch, every day. Our destinies are all intertwined. Some choose to remain ignorant of their own power, while others, like myself, choose to do it consciously, with will. Do you think it’s possible to act in anything except in accordance with God, Anaïs?”

I shrug, helplessly. I hate the direction of this conversation and sense it’s a train moving far too fast to get off now.

“People think of nature as this benign, sweet beauty, but it isn’t. Nature is ferocious in its utilitarianism. That’s the frightening thing, isn’t it, how it’s both pragmatic and yet unpredictable. People die every day, no rhyme or reason, species become extinct, others invade and adapt, and that, my dear, IS the way of the world. I choose to be what I am: a part of nature. And I choose to be conscious.”

It’s like being a surgeon, I think, having that supreme confidence, that conviction that your actions are an extension of God. That you are God, in your own way. And that you have the right to do as you see fit.

“We were made in God’s image. What do you think that means?” he asks me, reading my thoughts, his thumb rubbing my knuckles gently.

I shake my head vehemently. “I’m an ordinary person, James. I don’t want that responsibility, to influence events. You’re cut from a different cloth.”

“And so you accept ignorance?” He pulls his hand from mine, and reaches for his glass. “Is that true, you’re fine with that?” He raises the glass in a mocking salute before taking a sip.

“I - yes, yes I suppose that is what I mean. Yes,” I say more firmly.

James narrows his eyes. After a moment he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

I didn’t really believe me either, but I’m backed into a corner, and not one to give in gracefully. Besides, I need to think.

I take a long sip of wine and glance around the room, the majesty of it, and of the view. “This is so divorced from reality,” I mutter, more to myself than to James, but he answers anyway.

“No, you’re wrong. This is divorced from YOUR reality. Think about that, Anaïs. This is how I live every day.”

Every day? I can’t even imagine, not really, what it would be like to have no routine, no home - to move wherever whim takes you. The thought of it makes me vaguely uneasy, like imagining eating dessert for breakfast every morning.

James laughs then, watching me. “Ah, Anaïs, you’re so good, aren’t you? You’re on the side of the angels.” He leans close to me and when he speaks, it’s deliberately wicked. “But what you don’t yet understand, my dear - _I’m on the side of the angels, too._ ”

****  


We sit in silence as the moon travels over the snow. Finally I finish my wine, and stand up. There’s nothing to say, really. We’re two different people from two different worlds. James stands, too, and together we take the remnants and glasses to the kitchen.

James looks at me, tilting his head. “There’s just a few hours of night left. Would you be spending them with me?”

Almost imperceptibly I shake my head. “I can’t,” I say quietly, perhaps the two hardest words I’ve ever spoken in my life.

James keeps his face perfectly neutral as he nods. “I understand.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Sleep well, my dear.” And he takes his leave. I press my lips together with the effort not to call him back.

I do sleep, surprisingly, considering I feel like my heart has just been run over by a Mack truck repeatedly. But I think we all have our limit, where the only response is just to - disappear.

In the morning, I follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen, where a manservant hands me a cup and takes the dogs outside. James is reading the paper, sipping tea. “Good morning,” he says politely.

“How very civilized of you, an actual paper and not a tablet at the breakfast table.”

He sniffs, offended. “I might be Irish but I’m not a barbarian, you know.”

“Mmm.” I can’t help but giggle.

James ignores me as I choose a section of the paper for myself. I am well into my third cup when he speaks. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Are you?” I ask, pointedly.

He sighs, and puts down his paper.

His fingers drums the table for one moment before he speaks. “Come with me.”

Thank god I’ve had coffee.

“I can’t.” I force myself to say the words. I feel faintly sick. “I can’t see you again.”

James raises an eyebrow. “I’m not going to beg.”

“And what if I begged you to stop being a criminal? What if I -”

“Criminal?” He cuts me off with a grimace. “Such a brash word, my dear. Not subtle.”

I resist the urge to kick him under the table. “What if I asked you to live as an ordinary person?”

He’s silent, his head tilted to the side with that strange, reptilian stillness.

“So,” I say, “it’s best if we don’t even talk about it. I can’t see you again. There’s nothing to say, really.”

James sets down his tea cup and stands. His eyes are almost black, and he doesn’t blink once as he stares at me. “You wouldn’t want me if I were an ordinary person, Anaïs. You just can’t admit it to yourself.” He nods politely, and walks away.

“Oh, and  by the way -” he calls over his shoulder, almost to the door, “ - your precious trainer bribed the racetrack clerk. Just thought you might want to know.” He laughs easily, and then I hear his footsteps down the hall, the murmurs of conversation, and the opening and closing of the front door.

The manservant returns with the dogs. “Your car is waiting at your convenience, miss.”

I swallow, and nod. _Be brave, goddammit, Anaïs. This is necessary. Just suck it up and deal._

“Thank you. About 15 minutes, I would think.” My voice is surprisingly strong.

“Certainly, miss.”

I hold my head up as I rise from the table. I can hold my own. And that is exactly what I plan to do.

 


	41. Chapter 41

Since I’ve barely slept, I arrive home in a daze. By virtue of the fact that I was dressed to walk the dogs what seems like days ago but was only yesterday, I’m in some kind of weird stop-motion version of my life, as I now proceed from where I left off when I tossed Tom my house keys. The dogs, sensing my general acquiescence, drag me all over the park.

Against all promises I have made to myself, I check my phone every 20 minutes for a text, but of course there isn’t one. He’s hardly the kind of man who would chase after me and beg me to reconsider, that’s not his style at all. And even if he did, what good would that do? Just so I could I could say ‘no’ again? I need to put him firmly in the ‘lovely adventures’ file and move on. In all seriousness, it’s a necessity.

At home I indulgently order Chinese delivery and run a bath. With for-once perfect timing the doorbell rings just as I’ve stepped out and am pulling on my robe.

I set the boxes on the counter and go to get a pair of socks. I’m on the phone with Dell about my good boy and I don’t notice at first, but then, flustered, I tell Dell I’ll call her back. I slip the phone into my pocket and stare down at the drawer. My socks have been rearranged.

I realize that sounds mental. I’m not OCD, I swear, I’m really not. But I do have my little habits, and one is arranging my socks from white to tan to grey to black. (I’ll be honest, I don’t really own colored socks. I’m just not that exciting, I suppose. Not that girl.) But now, as I peer into the drawer with astonishment, the socks are...co-mingling. My socks have been integrated, and not randomly. They’re in pairs.

THAT LITTLE SHIT.

I don’t know whether to laugh or to throw things, or maybe even just sink down onto the carpet and finally have the nervous breakdown that’s been at the edge of my vision my entire adult life. That brash, brazen, smug, self-satisfied son-of-a-bitch. Oh! He’s such a fucking GENIUS when it comes to human nature. It’s just as he said all those weeks ago: _“I’m a student of human nature, you see? What makes people tick. It’s my specialty, you might say. Everything else flows from there, Anaïs.”_

All of the varying emotions this little scenario produces cancel each other out. I can’t stay mad, but neither can I laugh when I realize how extremely violating it is to have some unknown hands rifling through my drawers. This is more than a prank; it’s a message.

I could change the locks, but I know there's no point. Call me paranoid, though, because I put in  a call to Rich to have him sweep my condo for bugs and cameras.

“Can I even trust you to tell me if you find them?” I ask when I’ve finished outlining my request.

“You mean you think our mutual friend might have planted them, is what you’re saying,” he says warily.

“You’d know as well as I the things he’s capable of, Richie.”

“Jesus, I told you, I fucking told you!”

“Yeah, well, that's not helping, thanks. Can I trust you or not?”

He sighs. “Look, I sure the fuck don’t want to take a job that might cross him...but yeah, I’m not under retainer. I can do it.”

Retainer? Interesting… “So has he been in contact with you? He told me he had an idea you two might work well together.”

“I’m sure the fuck not talking about it over the phone, anyway,” he says with annoyance, and I have my answer.

“Yeah, okay. What time tomorrow?”

I can hear him searching for a reason, any reason, to refuse me, but we’ve been friends too long.

“10 a.m..”

I smile. “Perfect. Thanks, Richie.”

For once I beat him to the hang-up.

I eat my take-out on the deck. I resist the urge to hold up the Chinese container and shout, “I like moo-shu pork, in case you’re interested!” out into the darkness.

But there’s something else here, something obvious. My drawer was rearranged while I was gone, which can only mean one thing: _James knew I would say no._ He knew before I even left. It was all just another one of his games.

Goddammit.

Richie proclaims my condo clean and I hope to get on his good side again by paying in cash; my dogs arrive home from the groomers with collars switched, which could be written off as a not-uncommon mistake, I suppose; and I arrive home from the racetrack a few days later and crawl into bed after a shower only to discover my toes are sticking out the end of the covers.

I’m so annoyed I can’t even think clearly. Stupid fucking detail-oriented freak. That’s what he is, a freak of nature. I remember it so fucking clearly, as if he were sitting here beside me, the last time we made love, and my laughing comments about needing to have the comforter straightened. How, HOW am I supposed to keep it together when my heart is broken already? _Goddamn you, James, damn you straight to hell… I’m sorry that we even met,_ I think, but I know that’s not quite true, and I turn the comforter the right way around and pull it up over my shoulders, cuddling my dogs close for comfort.

And so go my days. Randomly annoying and or hilarious moments staged by James, including but not limited to buying a horse in my name and sending it to Dell named _“Opportunity Knocks”_ \- thankfully, we agreed, not a trotter, since trotters with less than perfect conformation are known to knock their knees with their own hooves - and switching all the cars in my condo’s assigned parking spots so I wander around for a moment, baffled, before Mason arrives to ask me if I need a ride. It takes all my self-restraint to answer in the affirmative - since I can’t find my fucking car - in a civil tone. _Jackass._

Packages of interesting and lovely things I haven’t ordered arrive in the mail - a beautifully made fountain pen and set of nibs, a book of poetry by Neruda with one page dog-eared ( _Sonnet IX, There Where the Waves Shatter_ , with the remarkable line _You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence_ underlined in ink), a pale blue satin nightgown in a glamorous 40’s style, a postmodern teapot and set of cups by a famous sculptor, a well-tailored hunt jacket. Sometimes even dinner shows up, delivered by Tom or Mason. I am carefully polite with them - I refuse to give James the satisfaction of being either angry or amused in front of either man, knowing they’ll report back.

A beautifully bound leather journal arrives, with lovely, thick paper, probably hand-made. And the card with the magpie taking flight off the edge... _“Write something about us.”_

That’s the one that kills me. He knows I’m better than my articles, better than I allow myself to be. He wants me to be more than I am, more than my self-imposed limits.

I hate him.

I love him.

I no longer know the difference.

“Your boyfriend has such a sexy accent,” Jilly, my show trainer enthuses, when I arrive at the barn.

“My...what?” I say, confused.

She grins at me with the gleamingly white smile of a Mayflower descendant. Her family has no doubt been riding in horse shows and swinging perfectly straight golden blonde hair since the British arrived. Still, she's very good coach, and I like her despite her perfection.

“Oh, don’t pretend! He said you would be like this! You know he paid your entry fee for the Spring Series and for training five times a week - he said he loves watching you win. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?” She smiles at me with a sunny certainty and I can’t bring myself to enlighten her otherwise.

The Spring Series! Oh sure, just the entire West Coast contingent of moneyed A-level riders descending on the Central Valley for a three-day show before the Valley turns into the sweating armpit of California in the summer…  I just start laughing, I fear it will turn to hysteria, but I manage to keep a lid on it. “He doesn’t know Gladstone, then,” I say, but she poo-poo’s me.

“No, he can win, it’s just a matter of finding the right class for him,” she says as she looks over the long list of classes on the entry card. “No, I’ve got this,” she nods to herself, “Now go warm up. We only have three weeks.”

I shake my head, bemused, but obey. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I call over my shoulder, but Jilly ignores me. The fucking gall of this man. So that’s what the hunt jacket meant - gah!

I stalk down the barn aisle annoyed but amused. Okay, fine. I need to ride my absolute best. It’s just the same as the leather-bound notebook, isn’t it?

I can do better, he says.

I can hold my own.

Well, by god, maybe I believe him.

So I channel all my freaky energy, all my worries, all my hopes into riding - like, no way in my real life could I afford training five times a week but hell, it’s already been paid, and even my pride isn’t going to keep me from the chance to really give this sport my best. And Gladstone seems to rouse himself with all the attention, as if he senses this is actually important to me.

The morning of the first day of the Spring Series - in my level, it’s just two days, whereas for those riding six-figure horses - and there are plenty - it’s a three-day show - I am a bundle of nerves at 3 am, when I wake up to drink coffee and pace before arriving at the barn at 4 am. I’ve hired someone to braid Gladstone and he looks like a million bucks napping in his stall with a wrap covering his carefully braided mane and another wrapped around his braided tail. “Okay, buddy,” I say, as I pat him, “let’s do this. What the fuck, we might just do alright.” He nickers at me softly, as if he actually understands. And who am I to say he doesn’t?

Jilly drives the truck and trailer with Gladstone and another horse belonging to a client in a level several steps up from mine, and as is our custom, I ride shotgun and keep her entertained in the wee morning hours. Once at the locale, and unloaded and warmed up, I pull on the beautifully tailored jacket James sent me. I reach into the inside pocket, and am not surprised to pull out a business card. _You must do the thing you think you cannot do. - Eleanor Roosevelt_ is written upon it in his beautiful handwriting, and as with everything with James, there’s layers of meaning. But I just put it to my lips and kiss it, because I know, today, it’s my lucky card. It’s riding with me - the luck of the Irish. I grin and tuck it back beside my heart.

And by god, we do it - not just the first day, where Gladstone has to actually expend the energy to pick up his feet and pay attention during our dressage test, but the second day as well, where I tuck James’ card into the inside pocket of my shock vest - padded to minimize injury to major organs if horse and rider part company over the cross-country course - and smile when the tape falls and we gallop out onto the course. Gladstone responds to my strangely euphoric confidence with a hearty enthusiasm, bravely tackling jumps and hedges as if to the manor born, and even the water jump is just another day in the life of a champion, he seems to say. He picks up his ass like only a quarter-horse can for the home sprint and saves us a full second with his effort, which is all him. I never even raise my riding crop.  

I am laughing like an idiot as I loosen the girth and walk him out, and even Jilly looks astonished as she sprints to us. I swing down and she grabs the reins, pating Gladstone madly. “You did it, you did it, you good good boy,” she rambles, and even though there’s seven entries after us, I know we’ve earned a ribbon one way or another.

And the ribbon is blue, a blue ribbon, finally, after all the years we’ve worked together, Gladstone and I finally are the best in our class at a major show and I swear my horse is just as pleased as I am. He shifts his weight and poses for the camera, and ignores the tails of the ribbon blowing in his eye when it’s attached to his halter, and accepts the attention as his due. I pat him a hundred times in the arena and on the way back to the barn, and he almost seems to smile, if a horse could do such a thing. Oh, I love him.

I walk Gladstone down the aisle to a grooming station, and remove his saddle. Jilly takes it and promises to return with my grooming bag.

“Winning suits you.”

My god. I could never mistake that voice. I whirl around to see James, hands in the pockets of his beautifully-cut suit, leaning against the wall, watching me. He raises his eyebrows and smiles at me.

“No, winning suits YOU,” I reply, pointedly, “because it means I’m having a hard time not smiling despite my annoyance with you.”

James laughs, that beautifully melodic laugh. “Oh, come now. You’re far more amused than annoyed. In fact, at the moment, I’d say you find me practically irresistible.”

“Irresistible?” I hate it when he throws down like this, because even though he’s right - damn him and his ridiculously sexy accent - I can’t help but step up to the challenge. “Irresistible? I don’t think so. Horses are irresistible, puppies are irresistible, salted caramel gelato is irresistible - but men are not.”

“Not men, love, _me_.”


	42. Chapter 42

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“What ARE you doing?” he asks.

“Summoning up every moment of annoyance I’ve had at you in the last six weeks.” But even as I say this, I know it’s futile. I’m much too happy, and he’s much too everything. I can feel his body as he moves to me even before I open my eyes, and I know he’s going to kiss me. My hands reach for him before he touches me, it’s been so fucking long...

“Jesus...” I murmur into his hair as he presses his mouth against my neck, and then he turns his head and speech is no longer an option.

His lips are soft and and yielding against mine, but there's something about him, perhaps his scent, maybe something even more elemental, that makes his touch commanding. I feel myself lean into him, suddenly faint, and he grabs me and holds me fast as his mouth asks me without words if I’ve missed him… ah, he’s such a bastard to ask… _don’t take away from my happiness today, James, don’t,_ I say without speaking, but my body answers for me, with the same clarity I felt earlier on the course when everything was aligned: _yes I said yes I will yes_

Satisfied, he releases me, and it’s like when you didn’t know you were hungry and then you take just a bite off a friend’s plate and suddenly you would kill over a canapé. _Damn him._ I swear to God, how can I ever make a rational decision when this is my reaction?

When I open my eyes he’s smiling with an echo of the euphoria I feel. “I’m really so chuffed at your ride,”’ he says, and has the nerve to look self-satisfied. “I knew you could win,” he says, nodding conspiratorially.

I look at him warily, narrowing my eyes. He’s so beautiful to me, even the crow’s feet around his eyes are beautiful; I want to run my tongue along the ridges, and trace his brow, and… I’ve missed him so fucking much. Goddammit. I need him to stop. I’m not capable of refusing him. But I have to try, really I do.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I say, boldly.

James pauses and runs his gaze over my face like a caress. “You would think,” he says quietly,”that someone who makes a living in the manner that I do might be given just a teensy smidge more credit when it comes to strategy.”

“Oh,” I say, stupidly, when I see the shadow of a smile on his face. “Well, I can’t help it,” I shrug, “all of this attention has made me feel important.”

Now James breaks into a grin. “Oh? And so now you think I find dressage to be so captivating I’d come two hours by car to just to see it being done in the flesh?” He laughs at the thought, and I try to keep a straight face, but by God, it is a dull sport, I have to admit, about on par with watching grass grow or paint dry. I start to giggle, and I can’t look James in the eye, so I hear rather than see the snort of laughter as he looks at me. In minutes we’re crying laughing, crouched down on the dirt barn aisle, backs to the wall, both of us egged on by the other as we give in to our near-hysteria.

It’s in this state that Jilly finds us, arriving with my grooming kit. James looks up, and stands first, wiping the tears away with his handkerchief. “Och, I beg your pardon,” he says, and in his smoothest, most charming accent continues, “You must be Jillian. What a fantastic job you’ve done of preparing them for this show, I’m so very appreciative.” He smiles in that way he has, and I actually laugh harder when I see her unconsciously flip her hair and flush. _Jesus. He should not be legal._

I stand now, and she grabs ahold of herself. “Oh! I didn’t know - well, I certainly can - do you want me to finish with him?” she gestures to Gladstone. I start to protest, but James steps ahead of me, and places his hand on her arm, intimately.

“I didn’t tell Anaïs I was coming, I wanted it to be a surprise, but would you - could you possibly - I’d love to take her out to lunch to celebrate. I’m always travelling, you see, I see her so infrequently.” And he smiles at her, and that’s it, it’s a fucking done deal.

_Wow_. I’ve never really seen him turn it on before, his charisma, but holy hell, it’s potent. Jilly is already offering to load and ship Gladstone and make sure he’s settled at home. I almost feel bad, but then I notice James lean forward and mention something to her, and I know she’ll be well-compensated. So I give in. Besides, I’m starving.

I thank her effusively and reach to pat Gladstone for the hundredth time. When I turn, James hands me his handkerchief, and I press it to my eyes. “You know what that was?” I ask, referring to our fit of laughter. James raises his eyebrows. “That’s hunger delirium right there. I demand a decent meal.”

James reaches for my hand and presses it against his mouth as we walk. “Of course, my lady,” he says, his eyes still laughing,”Your ride awaits.”

“You do realize I’m dusty and grubby and…”

He smiles to himself as we walk. “Oh...I rather like you dirty, my dear. Especially in a well-cut jacket.”

And he glances down at the riding crop stuck habitually in my boot and smirks.

“Are you sure you know how to drive on the right side of the street?” I tease as we pull out of the parking spot. I’m intrigued by the notion that James has actually driven himself, although I suppose it’s not that far-fetched. I’ve just never seen it.

The Audi Spyder howls in protest as he pulls out onto the left side of the road without shifting. I gasp. “Of course, what do you take me for?” he says in a nonchalant tone.

“James!” I squeak.

He shakes his head, and the car purrs as he shifts and accelerates through a curve. “You know, I’ve never understood the American attitude about that. Britain came first. Why would your way be more correct?”

I’m fucking DYING, he’s still in the left lane and it’s a fucking miracle we haven’t met anyone coming in the opposite direction, but he’s merely amused.

“Because the right side of the road is the right side of the road. It’s obvious.” My heart is pounding like a bass drum but I somehow keep my voice steady.

He laughs now, glancing at me, and pulls into the right lane, the beautifully engineered torque of the engine pulling against us as he accelerates, and I find myself laughing, too. _Son of a bitch._

“You’re a worrier, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice carrying above the wind in our ears as the sweet little convertible tackles the corners, tracking as only performance suspension can.

I decide to be nakedly honest. “I am. But I'm constantly at war with myself, you know? I love risk, I love horse racing and jumping horses and riding motorcycles and men who scare me, but then again I live in a small city that’s familiar, I’m a creature of habit, I lead a quiet life, I avoid people.“

We cover several more curves and break out into a valley of vineyards before I speak again. “It’s like I can never decide which side is true. Or real. Can you?”

James smiles. I love watching him as he drives, he’s both focused and relaxed. ‘Well, as you know I was raised in Dublin. I’m the oldest of twelve, good Irish Catholics, aye?” He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can smell the grapes, the ripening as the valley opens to us and the Audi purrs along the winding tarmac.

James glances at me and I see his face is serious. “Do you know what it’s like to want things, things you can never have, things which you understand other people don’t even dream about?”

I nod; I do understand, actually, it’s what’s made me a writer, the feeling of always being on the outside of life, the life that’s so easily accepted by so many.

“I grew up surrounded by crime, not privilege. A good life for them is to be able to have an extra pint on Saturday and a roast on Sunday and to get through the week, you know?” James shakes his head. “And they’re lovely, there’s nothing wrong with that, but I just never could find it in myself to accept that, to say to myself, yeah, the whole point of this mess is to watch Eastenders and buy a new telly. And so I had ambitions. But I saw my family, my mates - you know, they didn’t feel as I did, they didn’t want to be somewhere other than where they were. And I felt… responsible. But angry, you know. That I had to make such choices. That I could be myself, or be a good son, a part of my society. It was so... unjust.”

We reach a straightaway, and James turns it on now and the engine pulls steadily until we’re flying, and no matter what the subject, it’s impossible to be unhappy. We grin at each other, madly, and when we slow to turn off of Hwy 29, I have that euphoria again, the feeling that I could do anything.

“And?” I prompt, not wanting the story to be over.

James glances at me and shrugs. “And - you know the choice I made. There were always a few lads here and there - they had a look I came to know well, a hungry look - and I encouraged them, and then I organized them, and eventually - I owned them. And here we are.”

I don’t answer, rolling his words around thoughtfully. We pull into a parking space outside Mustard’s Grill, but James makes no move to exit. He turns to me and looks at me very seriously, much the same way he did when explaining strategy to me months ago.

“You see, what you don’t understand, Anaïs, is how bad it would be, how really, really bad, if someone didn’t organize it. Someone ruthless enough to be able to keep a code. You don’t have any idea and you like to spout off about these things because you’re a liberal - or is that progressive? - and that’s what liberals do. But it isn’t a matter of politics or idealism, it’s purely practical - there will always be a wolf at the door. It’s better for everyone if that wolf is at least civilized.”

And so we have the most civilized of early dinners, discussing music, drama, culture, literature. I love his mind, it’s supple and flexible, able to see several points-of-view simultaneously, and like me, he enjoys a good debate regardless of position.

The meal is fantastic, but by the time the last plates are cleared, I am using my napkin to cover my yawns.

James smiles at me affectionately. “You’re exhausted.”

“I’m sorry, this has been the best day... I just - I’ve had about eight hours sleep over the last two nights.”

“Not to worry, my dear, I didn’t drag you away with any expectations.”

And I realize with surprise that this is true, and further, that it’s something I appreciate about him - not once in all of the time I’ve known him has he ever acted like my body, my sexuality was something taken for granted. What an enigma he is. He has no issue with breaking into my flat, rifling through my private things, and yet he shows me the ultimate personal respect.

I’m too tired to sort it all out, so I follow to the car and ask no questions as we pull onto the St. Helena Highway.

The spring night air is chilly but refreshing as we wind through the vineyards, finally pulling up, after several turns, to a beautiful modern home overlooking the valley. Tom is there, as well as another young man I don’t know, standing outside the front door. James stops to chat with them briefly. This time I watch their faces, instead of James. The look each gives him is telling - not just fear, not just respect, but - am I wrong? - I see a shadow of hero-worship as well. I hear James chuckle and he pats Tom on the back before turning back to me to lead me inside. How very interesting. _James Moriarty, student of human nature. He could lead corporate workshops,_ I think with a giggle, _How to inspire loyalty unto death._ I realize I’m just slap-happy, I’m so tired.

When I come out of the bathroom, nightly rituals complete, the beautiful ice-blue satin nightgown he sent to my condo weeks ago is laid out on the bed. I shake my head, but complacently put it on as James watches appreciatively. “This is the first time you’ve worn it, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“Och, a lucky guess. But the color suits you. I knew it would.” He smiles now, like a man whose life is in perfect order, and gestures to me. “Come, my dear, I want to feel the satin against my skin.”

And I curl against him, my head on his chest, and fall asleep within minutes.

 


	43. Chapter 43

In the middle of the night, I wake up abruptly from a dream that immediately escapes me. In my confusion, I panic, it’s all unfamiliar, where are my dogs, what is this place, what am I -- and then I smell him, it’s as simple as that, I smell James and reach my hand out to touch him, and just like that, I am suddenly okay.

My heart is still pounding and I feel I can’t go another moment without this thing, this connection, and he must sense it, because he turns and wraps his arms around me, drawing me closer in his sleep, but even that is not enough and my hands reach between his legs while my lips and teeth find his shoulder, and then finally - finally - he awakens under my touch and his lips are crushing mine as his hands push up the satin of my nightgown in bunches around my waist, and his weight is upon me, and finally he’s inside me and god - I needed this, needed him - and it’s just that simple, that’s all.

I’m basically an idiot. This is my thought when I wake up, before I even open my eyes. I have an unsolvable dilemma. And I just keep making it worse.

I make small talk in the morning, as much as necessary, which is very little, thank the gods. When I ask James what I’m supposed to wear, he just smiles slyly. “I believe your riding clothes have been cleaned,” he says, and turns back to his paper. Very strange - James prepares for everything. I find my clothes from the day before immaculately cleaned - even my boots have been polished, what the fuck, this world is too much sometimes - but instead of my show shirt, there’s a well cut silk t-shirt to wear beneath my jacket. Well, so be it. If James wants to dress me up, it’s probably the least of my worries.

I zip up my boots and shrug into the jacket. I pat the pockets, looking for my lip gloss, and find a small jeweler's box. Oh, Christ. What could this possibly be? I should have had a third cup of coffee, I’m not prepared.

“Do you always look so conflicted when you receive a gift?”

I glance up and in the mirror see James standing in the doorway. His face is neutral, but his eyes have that glint that tells me he’s observing me intently.

I turn to face him, and answer quietly. “Only when I’m conflicted about the giver.” I raise my eyes to his and feel a sudden pang, but I have to be honest, it’s the only thing I can fall back to in these moments. James narrows his eyes for just a tick, and then he nods. “Go on, open it.” _Jesus._ Sometimes when he watches me I feel like a science experiment.

So I open the box, the hinges smooth, and to my relief, find something extremely simple, but classic in my world: a platinum horseshoe with three small but stunningly clear diamonds on a delicate chain. It’s a necklace you see amongst the monied riders on the A-circuit, but I’d be lying if I said I never envied them or wished to have such a thing.

James walks to me and takes it out of my hands, tossing the jewelers box aside. “Hold up your hair,” he says softly, and places the chain around my neck, deftly clasping it. He kisses the nape of my neck and then straightens, tilting his chin as he looks at me appraisingly. The horseshoe rests just in the hollow of my neck. “Just so. That v-neck t-shirt needed something, I thought.” He smiles, pleased with himself. “Very nice, my dear. We should be off, we have an appointment.”

I don’t even bother to ask.

Well, I should say I manage to not ask for a good ten minutes, until we’re in the car and spinning along. “What are we doing?”

“We’re off to have a look at something interesting.”

“And what might that be?”

“Do you hate all surprises, or just mine?” he asks, mirth in his voice.

“Oh, ah - all,” I admit.

He justs laughs.

“No, really, what are we going to look at?”

James smiles, that same self-satisfied smile, and downshifts into a turn, the engine growling. “A horse farm.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”

He glances at me, amused. “Because yesterday I told you I know something about strategy.”

“Ah-HAH. So I wasn’t wrong, after all.”

“You weren’t wrong, just misguided.”

I start to sputter, then catch myself. “Well, look at the company I’m keeping - what do you expect?”

James laughs, pleased.

“No, c’mon, tell me what we’re doing,” I press.

“We’re giving my accountant a reason to write off this entire trip.”

“You pay taxes?”

James frowns at me. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I pay taxes. I’m a consultant, a self-employed businessman. D’ya think I fancy a prison stint for tax evasion?”

“Of course not,” I say, miffed, “I just didn’t think -”

“You hired Rich to look into to me, did you not?”

 _Rich?_  Wow, it didn’t take them long to be on a first-name basis. Annoyed, I nod. “Yeah - I asked him to get me a background, but all he could find was your public persona. You know this, remember? You were there.”

“Not me, my dear. I was at lunch with you, remember? At that lovely Mexican place? Really, I was was very impressed with their molé, we should lunch there again, don’t you think?”

_Jackass._

“What is your point, James?”

“My point, Anaïs, -” he mockingly emphasizes my name, “- is to ask - What did he find, your investigator?”

I shrug, searching my recollection. “Nothing, really, nothing out of the ordinary. Your philanthropy, your positions on the board of a major hospital, another on the board of a regional bank, stockholder in several up-and-coming tech companies, a limited interest as a venture capitalist - and patron of several museums.”

He nods. “You have a good memory.”

“I write articles for a living, James.”

He shakes his head. “Tsk, tsk. So cranky.”

He glances at me now, just raising his eyebrows, with that little half-smile I find so appealing, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

I look out to the scenery flying past. “Oh, piss off. That is your native language, yeah? Or do I need to tell you to sod off?”

James dissolves into laughter, and I can’t help but follow.

“So,” he says, when we’ve both gotten over ourselves, “my point is that the best way to hide is in plain sight. Be ordinary. So of course I pay taxes, just enough to nicely fit into the hole I’ve pegged for my public persona, as you call it.”

I nod, thoughtful.

“When you think about it, what’s really astonishing is the amount of taxes that don’t get paid, not by individuals, but by corporations. Sheer highway robbery,” he says, his voice admiring. He glances to me, with a look of mutual conspiracy. “Do you know what I’ve really been enjoying lately?”

I shake my head, slowly, not sure where this is going.

“Industrial espionage,” he says with pleasure, his voice deep and drawling. He glances at me again, and I swear he’s fucking maniacal, this one, he reminds me of Jack Nicholson, with his crazy fucking eyebrows. “Nooo, listen, it’s fantastic, d’ya know why?”

Now he takes his eyes off the road for what seems like a full minute but is probably only ten seconds.

“No,” I  say, glancing back at the road meaningfully.

But James doesn’t take my hint. “Ah, well now, let me tell you - it’s just - it’s so completely immoral from the get go, I mean, there’s absolutely no good guys, you know, when you see how corporate ‘persons’ -” and here he takes both hands off the wheel to make quotation marks in the air, “- rule the world these days…” he shrugs, “You just play to win. It’s very ‘Spy vs.Spy’. I loved that cartoon, you know, when I was a lad…brilliant. Such fantastic design, really… And political, you know. Ah, but that’s a rant for another day.” And he grins at me.

I just look at him.

I am in love with a lunatic.

_Good Christ._

**  
  
**

“So, but you still haven’t told me what we’re doing today.”

“My god,” James shakes his head, ever so slightly annoyed, “you’re so very persistent.”

I’m not letting him off the hook. I hate being unprepared, especially in this company. It’s dangerous, and that’s no joke. At my look he smiles, and places his hand on my thigh. It’s purposefully distracting, but I do my best to ignore it.

“Mmm, well, as you know, people come to me to solve their little problems. I mean - actually, it’s the nature of my business that their problem is usually quite far along - well, by the time it occurs to them to bring in the experts.” He looks pained. “So often something that could have been corrected by a simple nudge in the beginning requires a blast of dynamite by the time it crosses my desk. Quite unfortunate.”

I’m staring at him now, ignoring the word-class scenery in favor of getting a glimpse of how James really thinks.

He glances at me, and seeing my focus, he gives just a glimmer of a smile, pleased. “In this case, the nice people -” his voice drips with sarcasm “- that own this farm have gotten themselves in quite a pickle. Debts are being called in, they’re starting to panic. Considering measures I really can’t endorse.” He screws up his mouth, frowning. “So I thought it might be best to simply step in and solve the problem myself. The bank holding the main note is one with whom I have an - association. They recommended the owners speak with me.” He glances at me again. “I might acquire the farm as an investment opportunity.” His voice is remarkably breezy.

I look at him for a very long moment, weighing his words. “What do you mean, ‘considering desperate measures?’”

He smiles, just a half-smile, really, but he likes our reparteé. “Hmm. Tell me, beauty girl, is it very easy to get in over your head with a horse farm?”

I nod. “Very easy, maybe even extremely easy. All it takes is the cost of feed to jump, or your stallion to injure himself in the field, or a particular breeding line to go out of fashion.”

“And what is the number one reason for people to be in a financial mess at the moment?”

“A drop - a really massive drop in property values, in the value of stocks - investments in general, but particularly property in high-value areas. They’re essentially over-valued, or they were, and now they’re upside-down. The kind of thing we haven’t seen since the Great Depression.”

“Yes, but we have less reason to feel sorry for these people, since they were flat foolish to invest in the largest real-estate bubble this state has ever seen. The  people of the Great Depression were another story altogether. But yes, my dear, you are correct.” James sighs, and again looks pained. “Do you remember the insurance scandal of the show-jumping world in the ‘80’s?”

I draw in a quick breath. It’s horrible, perhaps the most horrible racketeering in the history of sports, when nearly 50 well-bred, athletic horses competing for varying wealthy owners were killed by a small group of conspirators - primarily by electrocution but on occasion by barn fires - to collect insurance money. But that was 30 years ago, no?

James looks at me with a mixture of affection and pity. “Oh, Anais, I completely agree. It’s barbaric. And no matter what you think of me, I find the murder of innocents reprehensible. My definition of innocents may differ from the penal code - and perhaps from those of the average population - but no. Killing a thing of beauty to cancel out your foolishness, your petty, ignorant foolishness - no. It’s repugnant.” He shakes his head, and mutters more to himself than me, “A bull market. Such idiots…”

And he doesn’t speak again for miles.

“James, -” I look at him with concern, “- I don’t think I can meet these people. I might not be able to be civil.”

“Ah, me either, that’s why we’re meeting with the realtor, love. Well, that and the fact that I don’t like my face and name to be known.” He frowns. “That’s something you’ll have to get used to, I think.”

I do a double-take. “Get used to? Don’t go drawing conclusions based on a small amount of data, James. This weekend doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything.”

To my great annoyance, he just smiles, incredibly pleased with himself, and hits the accelerator, the throaty engine growling as we pull away.

 


	44. Chapter 44

The long driveway we turn down reminds me of Virginia, the ridiculously expensive horse farms with perfect, white four-board fences, emerald pastures, and picturesque herds of graceful horses, content and well-fed.

Truly, everything about this farm is perfect, from the sensible layout of the farm equipment and hay barn, to the width of the aisles in the main barn, the footing of the arena, even the mix of grasses in the pasture is well thought-out. Oh, it’s over the top, but you know - it’s California. Everything is over the top here. You get used to it, even if you can’t afford it.

And the main house is lovely, with a stunning patio overlooking the pastures and a studio below for guests or hobbies with french doors, a fenced back yard with fruit trees, and off of the barn and arena, a lovely bungalow that could double as an office suite for the farm.

In short, it’s my fantasy, and James - damn him, seriously, _goddamn him_ \- knows it well. If it wouldn't be too completely absurd I swear he’d be whistling innocently as we stroll along the grounds. He and the realtor talk business while I examine the construction of stalls, the depth of footing in the indoor arena, and get down on my knees to check the pasture grass.

And then there’s the horses. It’s dressage barn and an old-fashioned, classical one at that, because the fields are full of the breed I admire perhaps more than any other save for standardbreds. The classical horse of Spain from which mustangs and warmbloods are descended: Andalusians. Just their name inspires thoughts of arched necks and rounded haunches, long, flowing manes and liquid eyes. They’re exquisite, and although I have little knowledge of this breed’s particular breeding lines and prize stallions, even I can see someone has been doing their homework. They move across the pastures like sculptures in motion, putting me to mind of the Native American saying: _Horses make a landscape more beautiful._

“Anaïs,” James calls to me, and I walk to the barn aisle way where he stands with the realtor, a hearty, excessively tanned man in a conspicuously expensive suit that annoys me on sight. He keeps treating me like the little woman despite the fact that James defers to my expertise at nearly every turn, and seeing the look on my face, James turns away, giggling to himself, well-aware at how wrong this poor man has called the situation.

“Yes?” The realtor glances over my outfit and smirks as his eyes run down my tight breeches, and it’s all I can do to keep from landing a roundhouse kick, but I keep on my “stupid face” in the interest of business. When James has gotten over himself he turns to me, and says, “The horses come with the farm, love. I’ve told him we couldn’t possibly make a decision on this without riding, so the barn manager has taken the liberty of tacking up their lead stallion and a Grand Prix gelding for us.”

I struggle to keep a straight face, but manage by faking a sneeze. James graciously offers me his handkerchief from his houndstooth blazer. “You’re riding the stallion, of course,” he says, sotto voce.

“Are you mad?” I hiss back. “Just tell me, I can take it.”

James throws his head back and laughs like he already owns the estate, and for all I know, perhaps he does. “I’m Irish, love, of course I can ride. The question is - can you keep up?”

Oh, the bastard, throwing down before even lunch. I straighten up and smile at him. “You’d best don a pair of breeches, then, my dear,” I say in a mocking accent.

“Oh, they’re in the boot, along with our hunt caps,” he says smoothy. “Come along,” he says, striding down the gravel drive. I follow, torn between keeping up appearances and tackling him right then and there and kissing him so roughly he bleeds. I opt for the former.

In the back of the Audi’s trunk is, in fact, a pair of breeches and riding boots for James and helmets for each of us. James’ is a plain black hunt cap, infinitely suitable for a man, but mine is the newest GPA model, so much nicer than I can afford or actually ride, I just blink. “I think it will fit, but, och - so much more strenuous than choosing a nightgown, love,” James teases, seeing the look of doubt on my face. To me, he whispers, “Don’t be daft, of course it suits you,” and I whip my head to look at him. James, he sees everything.

I take a deep breath. “Jesus - go put your breeches on,” I say, lightly. And to my great relief, he does, and I have a moment to myself, to recover.

I suppose I don’t need to describe to you James, all dark hair and fair skin and square jaw with his customary shadow of stubble, in riding breeches, leather boots, houndstooth jacket and a pair of sunglasses? No? Good. Because it fucking nearly killed me.

The horses led to us are lovely, trained within an inch of their lives, and kind, as Andies generally are. Also, gorgeous, truly a meeting of nature and design. I love them both immediately. James is watching me as we lead them to the mounting block. There’s just one thing bothering me. “How - HOW, JAMES - how did you know that I love Andalusians?” I demand. They have been my favorite breed for over a decade, but financially never something I could actually indulge. A niche breed, even cast-offs tend to merit high five-figures. Out of my league. Again.

James glances sideways at me while checking the saddle girth. “Your friend RIch has known you for a very long time, has he not?”

For a moment I’m stunned. My investigator? “Richie? Are you fucking serious?”

James shrugs. “Oh, nearly every man can be bought, that’s a very important lesson. Not always by money, but still… There are exceptions, of course. Myself. I have no needs I cannot meet. But that’s unusual.”

I am furious. “Jesus Christ, is there anything of mine that will remain MINE with you in my life?”

James turns, undaunted. “Oh, now you’re angry at ME? How very interesting. So - you’re loyal.” His eyes, bright and birdlike, run over my face. “Hmm… I like that. Well, don’t worry, love, so are your friends. Rich told me things any investigator would have found with enough effort, but he earned my respect - wouldn’t say a word about the Senator. He said that was yours to tell.” He nods in appreciation. “He was a good choice, my dear.”

My horse side steps nervously, feeling the enmity pouring off of me. I probably even smell angry to him. I take a deep breath for his sake, and refocus. One doesn’t go getting on a stallion when distracted, no matter how kind a horse he may be. I stroke his neck and lean in to sniff the lovely horse smell under his mane, breathing deeply until I remember how lucky I am to be here in this place, with this beautiful creature, and even - _yes, don’t lie, Anaïs_ \- the company, my beautiful, infuriating Irishman. I look up to him; he’s mounted and looks perfectly at home on horseback - and I can’t help but smile. I spend one more moment checking in with my mount, and swing up. Once mounted, I look to James. “I secretly hate you, you know,” I say, brows raised, my face composed.

James smiles like the smug son-of-a-bitch he is, and his lovely lilt tumbles over me. “You don’t say, love. I’d never have guessed.” He raises his brows as our eyes meet.

And I shake my head and smile back - par for the course - as we set off along the footpath.

There’s no more perfect way to see the countryside than on horseback. The rhythm of hoofbeats on a dirt path, the sway of your body as you move in sync with this magnificent creature, the smell of the grasses and the sap rising in the trees as the sun beats down, dappled on the path,  the view from above as you survey that which you can’t grasp on foot, and the freedom of knowing that at any moment you could run like the wind, your partner being also your accomplice - it’s heady like nothing else, and makes it difficult for me to be objective as we view the farm. I love it, I simply love it, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted when I’ve thought of being able to do something meaningful for retired racehorses.

And I don’t kid myself. I know that’s exactly why James is considering it as an ‘investment’ - but what I can’t figure out is why. Why me? Why is he trying so hard? Other than pride, I mean - he’s not a man who loses, period. But no matter how many times I run everything through my brain while we walk along, I simply don’t have enough data to make a hypothesis. I know he wants me to want this; I have to leave it there for the moment.

Trotting up beside James, I let my horse walk slightly in front of his; it’s his privilege, not mine, as the stallion; stallions usually drive from behind but regardless, they are almost always higher in status, and as I expect, James’ horse defers to mine and pulls himself back so we can ride ever-so-slightly ahead.

I try not to stare at James and the way his hunting cap and sunglasses emphasize his full lips, but it’s difficult. He radiates a wonderful stillness on horseback, a perfect melding of will - his - and power - horsepower, literally - that suddenly makes me think of Alexander the Great and Bucephalus. James is regal, that’s exactly what it is - he looks around his world as if he owns it. And by and large - he does.

He smiles at me. “Ah, Anaïs, this is the loveliest you’ve ever been, you positively radiate happiness, my dear. Tell me, what do you think of this place?”

“It’s amazing,” I answer honestly. “A bit grand, though. What are they asking, if you don’t mind my question?”

“You can ask me anything, love, just as long as you actually want to hear the answer,” he replies, and I remember he’s said this before, but curiosity, a need to figure things out, has always been my weakness. “I think they’re in for eleven million, they’re asking nine, and I’ve offered five,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh? What makes you think they’ll settle?”

James smiles now, but not at me; it’s a smile of satisfaction, and narcissistic - he might as well slap himself on the back in congratulations. “Oh, it’s the best offer they’re going to get.”

My horse shies to the side and then catches himself as a bevy of quail explodes out of the bushes and across the path. I wait until he’s settled again and moving forward, and say over my shoulder, “Is this like the Godfather, you make them an offer they can’t refuse?”

I hear James chuckle behind me. “Ah, lass, you’re so smart - it’s exactly like that.”

I find James’ comment disconcerting, not because I didn’t expect it, but because, I too, find it amusing. Am I becoming like him? I can’t keep track of the morality of this situation anymore, there’s no clear boundaries and trying to tease out the philosophical knot of motivations, actions, and repercussions is exhausting.

I ask my horse for a trot and he smoothly complies, and I let myself just be with him, learning about his movement, his mind. James follows, and calls to me, “Fancy a canter?” and in response to my aids my lovely Andalusian answers with a round, swinging canter, as easy to sit as rocking in a hammock. It’s bliss, and James has the same expression as he draws beside me, that this is, in fact, the best of all possible worlds, the movement and the sunshine and the sheer exhilaration of being in the sensual world.

When we walk the horses out, I revisit my thoughts. “So, you’ve been checking up on me.”

“Of course.”

I glance at him. “And what have you found?” I ask, curious.

“You’re a restless soul, as you yourself said. You get bored easily. We’re alike in that way, you know,” he adds.

I think about that for a long moment. “Are you bored, then?”

James smiles at me. “You never run out of questions, do you?”

“Sadly, no. I did try to tell you sometime back.”

“Not to worry, love, I find it amusing. And yes, to answer your question, I am a bit. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been spending more time in California. I think I’m due for a change of scenery. I’ve always liked Boston - but I own that city now. And more and more I find I just don’t care.” He shrugs.

“Because the challenge is gone.”

“I suppose there’s always a challenge in managing - things come up. But yes. It’s all been done,” he replies, and just when I think the conversation is over, he looks at me. “The ambitions I had as a young man no longer suit me.”

“Oh? And do you have new ambitions to replace them?”

The path narrows here, between a thicket of blackberry and honeysuckle, and James reins in to let me go first, so I only hear the smile in his reply.

“Oh - I have a thought or two,” he says, and urges his horse into a trot, passing me as the path opens up again.  Walking behind him, I know that’s all the answer I’m going to get for the moment, but it’s enough.

James has a plan.

_James always has a plan._


	45. Chapter 45

“You do realize I have to go home at some point, right?” I ask as we swing down, grooms attentively moving to lead our lovely horses away. I give mine one last pat and this beautiful stallion gives me a liquid, brown-eyed stare and snorts, arching his head in a show of vanity. It's all I can do not to follow him into the barn. My gaze follows the spires and roofline instead. _This place, mine?_ That’s what James is offering after all, he doesn’t have to say it aloud for me to figure out the obvious.

I turn and catch James watching me, a particularly pleased look on his face. “Is that condominium really ‘home’, Anaïs? Do you actually have a home?”

I turn away, lips tightening. Home? The condo is a safe space, the safest space I’ve had since… _Say it, it’s not aloud, it’s just in your head for god’s sake_ … Since the one place I thought would be my real home, with a man I’d naively believed meant to keep me safe, the one man who promised me everything I thought I wanted. And then ripped my life apart. A light breeze hits my sweat-tinged skin and I shiver. The similarities are eerie.

I don’t hear him come up behind me. I start and pull away before I realize it’s James, his hand warm on my arm, his eyes as warmly brown and liquid as the lovely Andalusian, and nearly as hypnotic. He keeps his grip steady, neither tightening nor lessening it as I regain my composure. “I’m not him,” he says simply, and once again I realize James sees everything.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but James gracefully pretends he hasn’t heard, and instead says, “Shall we stay one more night in Napa, love?”

“Can’t we -” my voice catches, “Can we pick up the hounds and stay at my place?”

James smiles sadly, and reaches up to brush my hair out of my face. “I am sorry, really I am, my dear, but it’s too dangerous. It’s too open, too exposed. It makes you a target. I make you a target,” he says, withdrawing his hand, the smile fading as he looks at me searchingly.

“Too open? In a gated community?” I don’t want to think about what he’s saying.

James snorts, and his smile returns. “You know better than that. Look at what I’ve been able to do.”

I just stare at him, mind racing as I think of all the violations, small and large he’s committed. Do I forgive him, forgive his tresspasses?

He reaches quickly now, before I think it through, and grabs my other wrist, then slides his hands down until he’s holding each of mine. He shakes his head, and a tiny smile plays across his face. “I have been very naughty, I do agree. It's part and parcel of who I am, my dear, you know that by now, I think?” I nod, and he continues. “But I’m not your Senator. I have morals, my dear - oh, yes!” he says, catching my look of disbelief. “I do, indeed. If I commit to keep you safe - and if you recall our lovely weekend at my flat, I already have - than safe you shall be, from my hand just as much as from others. And if you were to cross me, to betray me; well, I’m enough of a man to be able to differentiate between a hit to my ego and a hit to my world. At the former, you’d know my displeasure, but not my hand. At the latter, you’d know my sniper, and not in the Biblical sense, I’m afraid.“ He smirks to himself before regarding me again with soft eyes. “But either way, I would never hurt you.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Did he not hear the contradictions inherent in his statement, or have I not understood it properly?

James and I regard each other, the breeze blowing strands of dark hair across his beautiful face as he watches me, and a sense of unreality settles in my bones as I let my eyes stray to the emerald fields, the blackberry hedges, the whitewashed spires of the barn and the endless rows of white fencing stretching down the lane. I meet his eyes, now a rich gold, and I shake my head.

“You are a right bastard, James Moriarty.”

“So I’ve been told.” He meets my eyes, no shame, none at all.

“Explain to me how you wouldn’t hurt me if I were to make my acquaintance of your sniper. I’m missing something, here.”

“If you hurt my world, purposefully, and with intent - my sniper would be a consequence you brought upon yourself. I wash my hands of such things.” He shrugs. “And then again - one never, never hits a woman - or a man, for that matter - merely for the sake of ego. That’s petty, beneath even a five-year-old. Unfortunately most people can’t differentiate.”

“Differentiate?”

“Between their world and their ego,” he repeats, patiently.

“Oh.” I nod, but my mind is busy sorting through his words, looking for proofs and arguments. I find it surprisingly logical, and that itself is disturbing.

“Let’s have lunch,” he says, smiling broadly at my expression. “D’ya mind if we don’t change? I’m famished.”

I laugh now, letting some of the tension go. “Oh, of course not, I won’t feel pretentious at all in this outfit.”

James smiles wickedly. “Really I just want to see you in your riding boots, it reminds me of such happy times, my angel.”

_Oh, Christ._ I have no answer but to turn away and stride towards the convertible, shaking my head all the while.

The maitre’d at Bouchon Bistro gestures to us with barely a five minute wait - Jesus, but I’m in heady company - and I ignore the stares of fellow diners as James and I walk through in breeches showing every muscle of our thighs, matching riding jackets and tall boots, and I smile sweetly as we’re seated. I try hard not to blush. James simply takes it as his due; I struggle to imitate his easy nonchalance and study the menu with deep interest.

“So,” James says after ordering for us, “You said the farm is a bit grand? Tell me why.” He smiles, and gestures encouragingly.

“Well, yes, I mean, there’s unnecessary expenses there. I think you saw the bar-slash-gallery with the picture window overlooking over the indoor arena? Good God. At least you could have your Jameson in comfort if you come to see me ride.” James nods approvingly, and I giggle before continuing, “But really, I've never understood luxury for luxury’s sake. I can see it for something particularly well-made or well-designed. But having tie rings specially ordered in your farm’s logo in solid brass? It’s a bit over the top. I just don’t see the need to put on such a show.”

Our waiter appears with glasses of sparkling wine and the amuse-bouche, and after he leaves, James raises his glass to me. “That’s why grand gestures work so well on you.” He takes a sip now, raising his eyebrows. “You neither expect nor require them.”

I raise mine right back. “Work on me? And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, leaning forward until I can see the gold flecks in his pupils, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, “that you make such things fun for me. There’s nothing worse to give or receive than a gift that’s merely expected.”

He’s so close now he could be kissing me, and his breath tickles my ear. It’s one of those stop-motion moments, when everything around us seems to go still, and it’s just the two of us in the midst of a crowd. It’s insanely sexy, the intimacy of it, and I suddenly want to grab him by the hair and straddle him right there at the table.

I’m certain he must be thinking along the same lines, because when I reciprocate by merely placing my hand on his thigh under the table, I can feel him almost imperceptibly draw in a breath. I turn so I can whisper back. “And what gifts do you have in mind at the moment? Is there something you want to give me?”

He grabs my wrist before I can move it any further up his thigh. “Hmm, well - it is tempting,” he says silkily, “but what I have in mind is something you’ll want to give me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he practically hums, “and not only will you give it freely, you’ll be asking me to take it.” He licks his lips. _Unconscious, or calculated?_ I wonder, but I’ll never know.

And with this, James sits back and takes a bite of the tiny, marinated, raw goat cheese with lavender honey and cracked pepper that serves as the opening of our meal.

I follow his lead, and when we’re finished, I take a sip of the sparkling wine and tilt my head, assessing. “And let me guess: You’re not going to tell me anything else until after you've gotten what you want, at which point you’ll merely point out that you were right all along.”

James laughs as he leans back in his chair, a full-throated laugh that draws more than a few glances, but he ignores the rest of the room, eyes only for me. He picks up his glass again, and makes a toast. “Anaïs, my very favorite mind with which to spar.” Taking a sip, he sets his glass down and fixes me with a direct gaze. “I do adore you, you know.”

He pauses just long enough for me to feel the pulse beating in my throat before raising his hands expansively. “And now, my dear, tell me everything about that farm from a barn manager’s point of view, and then, please, your thoughts on the horses themselves. I have some decisions to make about my most recent acquisitions.”

I just stare at him for a moment before replying. “You’re that confident they’ll accept your offer?”

He nods, the edges of his mouth turning up. “Oh, yes. In fact, I think we’ll find they already have.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, drawing out his phone. "Shall we check?" He swipes through a few screens before placing the phone on the table for me to see. The text message from the realtor is brief and to the point: _Offer accepted._  

I make a sincere, and very concerted effort to keep my mouth from falling open - we’re in one of Napa’s most celebrated restaurants and I already smell like a racetrack; looking like a simpleton won’t do at all. Finally I speak. “You’re frightening.”

James nods and answers in all seriousness, with that disconcerting habit he has of not blinking. “Yes.” The first course of lunch arrives, and suddenly my mercurial man smiles again. “It’s a good thing you go in for a bit of risk now and again.”

Before I can pick up my flatware he takes my hand, turns it over, and kisses my wrist just at the vein. The look in his eyes is haunting. How can he shift from mood to mood so quickly? “Everyone has their vulnerabilities, Anaïs.”

I gently pull my wrist from his grasp and run my thumb over his perfectly arched eyebrow. He closes his eyes at my touch, and I cup his cheekbone with my palm. “Even you.” I say it as a statement, not a question, but he answers me anyway.

“Oh, yes. Even me.”  He opens his eyes and grabs my wrist, kissing my hand before giving it back to me with a half-smile. “Eat, my dear. You may need your strength later.” He arches a brow at me before his face settles into his businesslike countenance. “Now, about the farm…”

At the car, we kiss, my hair blowing in my face in the sudden afternoon breeze. James grabs it in one hand and with the other tilts my chin up to look at him. His eyes roam across my face. “ I can’t begin to tell you how rewarding I find it, breaking the rules.”

I find myself staring at his lips. “Which rules are we breaking now?” I glance at up at him.

James locks his gaze on mine, unblinking. “The ones where I never care. The ones where I never kiss you, where I never have the scent of your hair at the nape of your neck playing in my mind on a long drive…” His eyes narrow, and he glances down at my lips before looking back at me. “The ones where you can never hurt me.”

He leans into me now, kissing my neck, rubbing his face in my hair, and I feel my knees go weak. I dig my hands into his hair, hungrily, and he pulls me to his lips, all of the tumultuous emotions of the last weeks spilling over in the touch of tender skin against the rough five o’clock shadow of his cheek, his jaw, and then the surprisingly generous lips opening to me, asking, searching, drawing me in as steadily and inexorably as a river flowing downstream.

It’s like a Midwestern spring storm, the wind suddenly whipping the fields into a frenzy, the plains undulating in waves as the pressure comes out of nowhere, hitting so hard and with such elemental force you can hardly stand. And then the skies darken, drawing together tightly until, just when you can’t breathe, the lightning breaks apart the sky and the rain feels like a gift, a generous gift for all.

Standing against his car, in a barren parking lot of all places, we kiss until we’re breathless, hearts pounding through skin, until we are absolutely drunk with kissing. And it’s only just now, when I actually stumble a half-step, that we separate like two people dazed. James stares at me with absolutely no artifice, as shocked as I am at our reaction to one another, and suddenly I’m taken back to our first kiss on the Parkway levee. It should have been a warning.

As the delirium begins to drain from my body, I feel almost bruised, eyes huge and lips swollen, and I know in that moment he could do absolutely anything and I would let him. It’s a stunning realization.

“So,” James says huskily, “it seems there is something new under the sun after all.” His eyes search my face as if I’m a great mystery to him, James, who can read anyone and has seen everything. “I thought the only thrills left to me were my old familiars, but this -” he smiles with satisfaction, “-this is altogether different.”

Our eyes meet and we just stare, fascinated, before James smiles and gestures to the convertible, gently moving me aside to open the passenger door. “Let’s stay in tonight, do you think?” he asks smoothly, and I nod.

“Yes, good call. Yountville Grocery?” I ask, naming a specialty gourmet grocery store with an array of wine, cheeses, meats, olives, and items suitable for an indoor picnic.

James practically purrs. “Perfect.”


	46. Chapter 46

The Audi purrs along the winding tarmac, our purchases from Yountville safely stowed in the trunk, but as tired as I was last night, I’m sure we’re not heading in the direction of the house. “James…?” I start to ask, but he cuts me off.

“Tell me, my dear, do you like your new hunt cap?” he asks.

I blink, confused. “Yes, very much but -”

“Then perhaps you will refrain from ruining every surprise I have for you,” he says, smiling to take the sting out of his words.

I start to say something, but think better of it, and put my hand on his thigh in answer. I lean back, relaxing, truly relaxing for the first time in weeks if not longer, and let the wind whip my hair and the sun warm my face as we speed through the vineyards.

We turn onto a back road, either side covered in wildflowers, and soon we’re heading up and up and up, the road curving back and forth as we head up one of Napa’s tallest hills. I’m just beginning to wonder if we’re headed for a mythical castle when we finally reach a turn into a winery parking lot. There’s not a single car to be seen.

I glance at James, and he smiles with satisfaction. “I booked it for the day,” he says, offhand, as he opens my door and offers me his hand.

A broad sweeping staircase flanked by fountains leads us to a terrace with an enormous reflecting pond and fountains in a semicircle with sweeping views in every direction, and - am I crazy? “Is that…?” My voice trails off.

James nods. “San Francisco. Yes. It’s a clear enough day to be seen. I’m chuffed.” He comes to stand behind me, his arms around me as he breathes in my amazement. “So you see, my dear...sometimes it’s worth it to exchange trust for surprise.” He buries his face in my hair, and giggling, I place my hand on his arm.

“I have many things to learn from you, that I will admit,” I say, my eyes feasting on the gold and green hills and valleys of trellised grapes and native grasses. A shout from behind us makes us both turn, and an older man with a trim beard and slight belly strides toward us.

“Hello, I’m winemaker Michael Pratt,” he says as he reaches us, hand outstretched, “I’ll be conducting your tour and tasting personally. I understand you have a particular fondness for sparkling wines?”

James nods and smiles, the epitome of the successful businessman, despite still being in breeches. “Yes, thank you. But we’ll follow your lead, of course, as you see fit.”

The winemaker just now seems to notice our riding attire. “Oh, you’ve been riding, I see.” He shakes his head. “My daughter can’t get enough of them. Bite on one end, kick on the other, that’s what I say… But allow me to show you to the cellars! We have several lovely sparkling wines just at the moment, we might as well start there…” He turns to the winery, set literally into the earth, the roof arch spanning the space between two hills. “Some consider our architecture to be modern art,” he says, “and in that vein, we have an artist-in-residence…” James and I look at each other, grinning like mad, and set off behind the winemaker, this incredible experience ours and ours alone today.

It’s a lovely afternoon and I’m only half-sauced as we walk back to the car, laughing. James, of course, looks not at all tipsy and perfectly in control, not a hair out of place as he opens my door. “That was amazing, thank you,” I say after he puts our two cases of wine - we had a rather difficult time deciding what to take home - into the trunk.

Pulling his seat belt across his chest as he looks at me, James smiles with satisfaction. “Perhaps you’ll keep today in mind the next time you feel tempted to ask endless questions,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up.

I meet his eyes and giggle. “I very much doubt it, but far be it from me to quash your dreams.”

James just shakes his head. “Incorrigible.”

And he puts the Spyder in gear, smiling to himself, and the engine gives a throaty purr as he accelerates, the road winding ahead as we make our way home.

Once at the house, I find James has thoughtfully provided me with a small wardrobe, and I gratefully strip out of my riding clothes into casual pants and blouse before heading out for a walk. I need to walk off lunch and sober up, for one thing, but I also need a few minutes to myself, and I ignore the fact that Tom is never farther than 30 yards behind me. After all, James being overprotective has saved my ass more than once, so who am I to complain? And Tom stays a shadow, never attempting to talk to me, so I relax and let it go.

It’s tempting to try to sort out my thoughts and use this time to decide what to do about James but that will only make me crazy, so instead I just let myself be. I’m here, in this beautiful place, in good health, in the company of a man I adore. Isn’t that enough for now? I walk until I feel centered and calm. I do some basic yoga poses at the side of the road, knowing that I’m in NorCal and anyone passing by will find this to be perfectly normal. The sun is low in the sky as I turn back, and I feel deliciously alive and blessed.

Have you ever lived a romantic fantasy? Have you ever looked at your surroundings or the person you’re with and thought - _This is all in my mind. It must be.This can’t possibly be real..._

I walk into the living room, the rolling hills of Napa slowly darkening in the two-story window, a crackling fire in the hearth. James stands next to the fire in nothing but a dressing gown, wine flute in hand, and watches me as I take in the pillows, rugs, and comforters in front of the fire, then the plates of fruits, cheeses, antipasto on the side table. I look up at him and he turns to the ice bucket and pours me a glass of sparkling wine from the vineyard we visited today.

I giggle as I accept the glass. “C’mon, tell me the truth - your real job is planning romantic fantasies for women.”

He smiles and catches me in his gaze. “Oh, Anaïs, you deserve to be seduced over and over again… Besides -” he shrugs, still smiling, “What makes you think only women find this romantic?” He looks up at me assessingly.

“Oh, my error - of course, certainly you’d know better than I.” And I smile back, glass raised.

James throws his head back and laughs. “Och, so you’d like to know, then?”

“Oh, very much, indeed…” I smile sweetly. Two can play at this game.

He tilts his head, and evidently comes to some conclusion, because he walks to the chaise longue, picks up a silk robe, and hands it to me with a smile. “I’ve no doubt you’ll know practically all my secrets in time, my dear, but in the meantime…”

I trade him, handing him my empty wine flute in exchange. I raise a brow. “Certainly, as you like…”

And I unbutton my blouse, never taking my eyes off him. He raises his eyebrows, smiling, as he sees my plan, but does me the favor of keeping his eyes on mine as I slowly, deliberately strip, blouse, tank top, pants, panties. Running my hands through my hair, I reach for the robe and don it slowly. James just smiles.

“Let me get you a refill, love,” he murmurs, finally turning away. I grin like a maniac when he’s not looking, it’s so much fun to play games with him, but oh - it’s dangerous…

When he turns back, my face is composed, and I thank him civilly.

“Do you mind a bit of music, then?” he asks, and when I nod, he moves to the tuner and in a moment I hear the timeless sound of Coltrane’s Blue Train, and I smile. Perfect.

I take a piece of melon off the side table and sink down on a pillow beside the fire. James follows, and turns to me. “Let’s play a game. Truth or Dare?” he says, raising his brows.

I laugh. “Oh, HELL no. You’ll always pick Dare and you’ll never care how outrageous the dares are… No way,” I protest.

James takes a sip of his wine, amused, and concedes. “Right, well, let’s play Truth, then.”

“Play Truth? Some of us just live it, you know.” The wine is making me giggle.

“Och, there you go again, getting up on your high horse, are you now?”

“No, no, by all means, DO tell me the rules of Truth, Mr. Moriarty,” I tease. I try not to actually snort bubbles up my nose while laughing.

Ignoring my stifled giggles, he says with great dignity, “It’s quite simple. I ask you a question and you tell me the truth.”

“Ah, I see. Don’t you think it would be far more entertaining the other way around?”

“No, you poo-pooed ‘Dare’, so it’s my draw.”

I consider this for a moment, and James refills my glass. “That’s fair, but only if we alternate. Deal?”

He nods, handing me my glass. “Deal.”

So, what would James Moriarty want to know about me that he couldn’t find by any other means? He’s staring at me intently. I raise my eyebrows as I take another sip. Battle lines have been drawn.

“Tell me, my dear Anaïs: What’s your primal fear?”

In the space where I think about his question, the sound of the fire is suddenly very loud. I stare back at him, this time without laughter. This is a different kind of game we’re playing, where the question has almost more meaning than the answer. Why is that his first question? Because he wants the upper hand, he always does. In that one simple way, James Moriarty is predictable.

I smile broadly, pleased that I've learned something about him without saying a word. “What a fascinating mind you have.” I raise my glass in a toast. “And to answer your question - the Titanic. To be in the middle of cold, icy, nothingness and know that there’s nothing you can do but succumb…” I take a sip. “I dislike being cold.”

He laughs. And now I have the pleasure of watching him as I decide what to ask. He has that lovely, ironic half-smile, and his eyes are bright. I am positively gleeful as I form my question, slowly, enunciating every word: “What is it that I will want to give you?”

There’s a moment for it to sink in, and then  shout of laughter. “Good! Very good! Come here, Anaïs, I want to kiss you,” he says, and puts down his glass.

I never let go of mine, but take two steps on my knees and straddle him, holding my wine flute aloft. “So?”

He grins up at me. “I can’t tell you, I’ll have to show you. You know, you’re the writer: Show, don’t tell.”

“No, the rules we agreed to say you WILL tell me.”

James giggles. “ I never play by the rules, you know that.”

I take a last sip of my wine and place my glass down, before stretching up to my full height. Even on my knees, I’m no shrinking violet, and I flex my biceps before catching James up in my grasp, one hand in his hair and the other on his jaw. I see the gleam in his eyes and I know he loves my strength. “You’re a right bastard, that’s what I know,” I whisper in his ear.

“It clearly states on my birth certificate that I have two parents,” he whispers back.

I pull his hair sharply, so he’s looking up at me. “Don’t argue when I’m on top.”

“Oh, ho!” He smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes, I think this is how it has to be, other wise your id might get out of control, eh?” I move my robe so my breasts are exposed, and grabbing his hands, place his fingers on my nipples.

“Pinch me,” I say, untying his robe.


	47. Chapter 47

I untie his robe, admiring his flat stomach and the trail of black hair leading to his already hard cock, standing at attention almost to his bellybutton. Inclining my head, I let my tongue trace over his lips, nipping his lower lip with my teeth until he pulls my nipples so hard I gasp, laughing softly. “I have decided,” I say, “since I so clearly won that round of Truth -” I run my hands over his beautiful chest and down his abs until I have his thick cock wrapped in my hands. He makes a small growl in the back of his throat, and I smile, slowly squeezing and releasing the shaft of his cock as I speak. “I've decided to use you for my own pleasure.”

“Well then - by all means,” he says huskily, eyes closed with sensation.

“Really? Do you really think you can refrain from acting while I do whatever I like with you?”

His eyes are half-open now as I rub my thumb over the head of his cock.

Blinking, he stares at me. “Well, Anaïs, I will give it my very best effort... But you might want to move your hand if you want me to keep still.”

“No,” I say sweetly, “I’ll do what I like.” I lean down to speak quietly. “And what I like is feeling how swollen and hard you are and knowing that at any moment I can slide all that glorious thickness between my lips,” I whisper in his ear.

I can feel his indrawn breath, but when he replies, his voice is steady: “Is that so? Well, by all means, what’s mine is yours,” he says, blinking his dark eyes up at me.

I rock back on my knees and grab his chin, tracing his lower lip with my thumb. “So you willingly agree that in this moment, you are mine and I can do with you as I please?”

Looking up at me his face is surprisingly serious. “I do. And I am.”

I take a deep breath and look down at him. Does he know how hungry I am for him? Oh yes, he knows my heart. Of course he does, and he welcomes it, and so I feast on him, knowing I have one night left with him, one night to taste him, feel him, and so I fall upon him as a starving traveler falls upon a banquet table, greedily and without shame. His neck, the line of his collarbone, his nipples, his slim hipbones, his beautiful cock, and, repeatedly, his luscious mouth - I take them all for my own, with no thought to pain or bruises, and when at last I’m so wet I can’t wait any longer to feel his cock inside me, I dig his hands into his hair and and pull his face back to look at me.

His gaze is thick with lust, his lips parted greedily, swollen from where I’ve bit them again and again. “I see you,” he says thickly, and then moves his hands to my face, not yet touching. “May I?”

I nod, and in a gesture to answer mine, he runs his hands through my hair, and grasping, pulls my face to his, inviting - no, asking - me to take his mouth with mine once more. Only this time, he kisses back and I can hear his answers as if he were speaking. _I see you. Now show me who I am in return._

It’s a give and take, this kiss, a mutual feast, but I resist the urge to submit to him - not yet. I’m still the victor and not yet ready to step down.

Pulling away, I open my robe and drop my hands, letting it fall to the floor. Kneeling over his hips and glorious cock, I place his hands on either side of my ass, ever so slightly pulling my pussy lips apart. We’re staring at one another, my gaze dropping again to his lips, I have to have them again, and with one hand I grasp his cock, placing the swollen head between the slick wetness of my pussy lips as I lean down to take his lips in mine.

I let his cock rest just inside me, just there, and I take his lower lip in my teeth, and I suck on it slowly as I lower myself down his shaft. I’m rewarded by an audible moan, and I release his mouth and gasp myself as I feel the head of his cock hit my g-spot, and thrust deep inside me. I tilt my hips to ensure I have every inch of him inside me, every inch filling me as I stretch to accommodate him, and it’s obscenely good.

I arch my back and begin to rhythmically ride his cock, my clit rubbing on the slippery wetness my cunt leaves on his groin with every move. Closing my eyes, I let myself be immersed in the pleasure of each thrust. I’m so turned on and the feel of his cock against the top of my pussy is so intense, I know I’m going to come any minute.

I can feel James digging his fingers into my ass cheeks, and hear him encouraging me, his words unintelligible but his voice divine. I open my eyes to find him watching me, his eyes bright and wet and my hips move faster, his eyes wide as I bite my lower lip, my climax taking me by surprise, and I cry out and reach for James, his shoulders, to keep from falling. My head falls forward and this time without permission James cradles my face in his hands and opens my mouth with his, sucking my tongue, breathing in all the remaining energy of my orgasm. Shuddering, I bend my head to his shoulder, taking deep breaths, as James holds me to his chest. When I have at last returned myself to myself, I stretch like a cat, pleased and purring, and lie beside my beautiful Irishman.

“Did you know,” James says thoughtfully, “that your eyes turn a dark green after you come?” By way of answer I reach out to draw his lips to mine, this time kissing him softly, reverently, and as his arms press my body against his, it happens - that strange out-of-time kiss, where everything slows and boundaries disappear. The “me” and “not me” is suddenly amorphous, fluid, and there’s no sense where he begins and I end. I can hear us breathing, in sync now, and listening further, the of my - our? - heart, thudding strongly. I have the strangest sensation of energy humming up through my veins, through my limbs, to the top of my head, and then I can hear the hum as well as feel it, and just when I’m not sure I can follow the feeling any longer, James breaks off the kiss.

It feels abrupt but not unkind, and looking into his face I see he’s as overstimulated as I am. We stare into each other’s eyes as we did in the car park, incredulous, aghast, enthralled by this connection, this thing that has sprung up between us. It’s James who takes the lead now. “Come, love,” he says softly, and and gently lays me down in front of the fire, resting on his forearms above me as the weight of his body, stretched the length of mine, slowly sinks against me. His gaze is searching, his kisses on my jaw and neck gentle, like angel’s wings. I open my legs and reach for him, answering with muscle and sinew and bone - I arch my hips up to meet him and as he slowly enters me I look into his eyes and now, yes, now I submit with no vanity, no shame. And as he lowers his mouth to mine, thrusting his full length inside me, we are as nakedly ourselves as either of us has either been. I have seen the face of his true desire, and he has seen mine.

I sleep. When I awaken, James is sitting in front of the fire, eating grapes and watching me sleep. I notice that he’s stoked the fire, which burns brightly, and also that he eats grapes as I do, by peeling them with his teeth first. It’s an odd habit to have in common, though I doubt I do it with such insouciance. Everything about the way he holds himself reminds me of a prince, or perhaps a king - from his careless nakedness to the easy way he leans against the wall. Even his expression is regal, in the way of someone who has looked around and found everything to his liking. He’s a lot to take in.

“You sleep like an angel, you know,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.

I smile sleepily. “Mmm, you said that in the note you left at the hotel.”

James is cutting a peach, he glances up at me briefly. “So I did.”

As I stretch and rise to sit, he brings me a glass of wine and a plate of peaches, apples, and grapes. _Is this even real?_ “Are you plying me with wine again?” I ask.

“I am,” he says, kissing my forehead before turning away. “The night is young and I shall ply you with whatever intoxicants will lead you to share your deepest secrets with me,” he says over his shoulder, and I giggle.

“Oh, really?”

“Mmm,” he smiles, “or at least your body.”

I reach for a grape. “Everything with you is so indulgent, James. Do you even know how to restrain yourself?”

He turns and raises his perfect brows in horror. “You say that after what transpired less than two hours ago, Anaïs? I thought my restraint was admirable, even impressive. I’m afraid I am grievously hurt.” He shakes his head in mock dismay.

“What’s admirable,” I say, taking a sip, “is your taste in wines. This is really delicious. Where did you learn about wine? Not in Dublin, I wouldn't think.”

“No, certainly not,” he says, settling next to me with the plate balanced on his knees. “But you know, when you want to be something, when you envision yourself in a certain life -” he reaches for an apple and I find myself staring at his lips, “- you simply take on more and more elements of that life until, in time, they become yours.” He shrugs and looks away.  “I know how to ride a horse, shoot a grouse, speak French, order wine, and use my flatware in the correct order. All as a matter of credibility.” He stretches up, and I take the plate from him as he reaches for the bottle of wine. At my nod, he refills both our glasses and then, settling in, takes the plate back, setting it to the side after grabbing a last grape.

“You see, a certain -” he pauses, searching - “A certain decisiveness came easily to me, as did the ability to analyze the possible outcomes of an action. I was never one to shy away from risk, and I could be ruthless when needed, although despite what you might think, I was never ruthless for its own sake.” He looks at me pointedly. ”I’m not a cruel man, just one who dislikes losing.”

He takes a sip of wine, and continues. “And all of these qualities, coupled with the ambition only someone growing up in a poor slum in a grey city can understand - well, it was easy for me to rise to a position of influence in our neighborhood, and then our district.”

He shrugs and looks away from me. “And in short time, all the lower and working class areas of the city. I could have expanded on that, expanded outwards but at the same level, if you understand what I mean.” He glances at me and our eyes meet.

“I do.” I nod, and take a deep sip of wine. If James wants to talk, I want to stay the hell out of the way and listen. I’m trying not to stare at him, as if that might make him feel self-conscious, but then I realize that’s a straight-up impossibility. I let myself watch him. While his words are modulated - probably through the same process he’s describing - his face is extraordinarily expressive.

Standing, he places another log on the fire. “I wanted something more. The idea of running the same schemes, amongst the same people, just to gain influence or wealth - it bored me. It bored me to tears. I had already done it. What was the point of doing it again? But to move up -” he’s pacing now, and I wonder if he even knows, but I stay quiet and still as he talks - “to ply my trade at the next level, as it were, I had to become one of them. One of the class I sought to rule. Or at least, to incur no questions and generate no suspicion. For what I do, Anaïs, it’s so important that I blend into the crowd. To hide in plain sight, that is the key."


	48. Chapter 48

It's a marvel, I think, that James can blend in anywhere, but I’m biased and I realize, looking at him, that it’s a particular skill-set he has - to be beautiful, to be visible, to make an impact, only when he wants to. It’s strange - he’s so beautiful to me, with his pale skin and full lips and the stubble across his jaw - but in truth, he’s neither tall enough nor physically striking enough to cause an average observer to recall his presence, not unless he wants to be remembered.

I realize he’s watching me watch him, and I start to look away until it occurs to me that this is the whole point of the exercise: He wants to be seen.

I nod again, my eyes on his. “So you created yourself anew. James Moriarty, gentleman.”

“Just so,” he says, as he again takes a seat beside me. This time it’s me who fills our glasses. “And was it easy for you?” I ask.

“No, it was quite challenging, actually. It required constant vigilance, constant self-awareness. And at the same time, I was branching out into whole new spheres of influence. So it was exponentially more difficult. But -” he smiles and shakes his head, and I can see his eyes are gazing upon the past, “- I loved that, I loved the challenge, the thrill of knowing the stakes were literally as high as they could be - my life. And now the game had players with not necessarily more intelligence, but vastly greater resources, so perhaps the risk was even to my family, far away in Dublin. And I couldn’t have that, you see, so I had to win. I always had to win.”

We’re sitting leg-to-leg now, so he only has to tilt his head to look at me. “Yes, yes, I see,” I nod, but James catches something in my expression.

“You’re thinking something other than what you’re saying, my dear. What is it?”

I hesitate just a moment. “Forgive me, but some might say it’s you who placed your family in danger by choosing...the profession you chose.” James looks at me, face impassive, and I hastily add, “Not that...that’s entirely fair, but you do see… I mean…” My voice drifts off.

James looks at me for another long moment before shaking his head. “Never apologize to me, Anaïs, for thinking. You have a good mind; I expect you to use it. Of course that’s a perfectly logical thing to say. You’re very sweet,” he reaches out to touch my cheek, “but I don’t need coddling. I know who I am.”

I take a deep breath, and then a last sip of my wine, draining the glass. “Shall we finish it?” He nods, and I pour out the bottle and raise my glass. “A santé.”

“To health,” he agrees, and we both sip, the last of the bubbles tickling my nose. “So,” James says, and places his hand on my thigh, which is completely distracting. His voice brings me back. “So,” he says again, amused at me, “Of course it was my fault. But should I feel bad? Should I feel bad that my Mum and Da were able to buy a semi-detached, that my Mum finally had her vegetable garden? Bad that my three youngest siblings were able to go to public school and on to University? Should I feel bad that my brother Jem - he’s the next oldest, after myself - that I could afford to send him to a specialist, so he can walk now, without a brace, and you’d never know, to look at him, that he has a condition? Should I feel bad for all that? No, I think not.”

It’s the most heated I’ve ever heard him, but he quickly calms himself. I’m still weighing his words when he turns to me and speaks quietly, “Kiss me, Anaïs.” He’s already leaning towards me, and his lips are sweet with wine, his tongue searching, and somehow in the language of our bodies, the language we speak without words, I know that’s he’s keeping me with him. When he turns away, I feel lost.

“Here’s what you need to understand. There are sacrifices in life. Was my family in danger? Yes. Should I have left them to scrape through life with nothing? Would that have been better?” He sighs, and turns to me. “We all have to choose. We all have to choose what we can live with. I won’t lie to you, Anaïs.” He reaches a hand to my chin and tilts my head so he’s looking into my eyes. “I have done some terrible things in my life, terrible. Things that if I took my religion literally, would surely consign me to hell. And at the same time. I’ve done things that will surely earn me a place at the table, things that elevated more than my family, random people, people I cared for and people I didn’t - all drastically better off because of me.” He lets go of my chin, but I can’t stop staring as he looks off into the past. “Not just because of me, but because of the influence I had, the influence I had because of the terrible things that I’ve done.”

He looks at me now, gauging my reaction, but I can’t speak. I feel frozen in place.

“So do you see, my love? One depends on the other, over and over. Am I good? Am I bad? Can you tell me? Because I can’t tell you, you understand that now. Am I blessed or damned, Anaïs?”

_Am I blessed or damned, Anaïs?_ I’m still trying to take it all in when I feel his breath in my ear and then I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel his tongue trace the inside of my ear, then my earlobe between his teeth. His voice is low, rolling, so lovely. “This is real, love. All the rest is just - thought. Analysis. Speculation. But this - this is happening now. Here. This is something you can feel. This is what’s real.” His teeth lightly nip at my neck, and I shiver. “Angel,” he says, “Come down with me…”

And by god, I can’t resist as his teeth bite into my neck again. His hand on the back of my head guides my mouth to the crook of his neck above his collarbone, and I hesitate, knowing how deeply I want to wound him, but his hand is firm, his voice insistent. “Go on, then. You want it, I know you do,” he whispers in my ear, and oh yes, he’s so right, so very right as I press my mouth against his neck and take a breath. His musky, masculine scent is intoxicating like the wine.

I tease my tongue up over the ropey muscle leading up from his collarbone and then, before I can keep myself from causing pain, I bite the muscle, hard, so that I feel James stiffen in surprise. But as he draws breath in, I’m already sucking on his skin, drawing him in, and he reacts not by objecting but by grabbing the flesh at the nape of my neck with his teeth so that I jolt against his body, my nerves electric.

Soon we’re wrapped up in a strangely symbiotic shape, necking, but with teeth and nails and whispers. We’re entirely in our own world, my arms around his back, digging in when he bites me hard and coaxing him on when his tongue merely suggests. In the past - was it only a few weeks ago? - I would have worried about the marks on my neck, but now, what with the wine and the intimacy of our talk and his scent, I can’t even think, just experience what’s happening now. And I want him to mark me, oh yes, just as much as I want to mark him, my ethereal, enigmatic, maddening Irishman.

And so we stay wrapped up in one another for who knows how long, biting and suckling, grasping and sighing, needy and selfish and oblivious to pain, and it feels elemental, this, this mutual need and satisfaction.

Who knows how many hundreds of moments pass before my head clears enough to break away? We both blink, and then I take his mouth, and while he expects pain, when I bite his tongue it’s not sensual, it’s to cause him pain. His eyes jolt open. “Hi,” I say, and he blinks. “We were going down the rabbit hole.”

He blinks again, considering, then nods. “Quite right.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because there’s causing pain and then there’s causing pain.

“No, no, you’re completely correct,” he says, sitting up and stretching.

“Kiss me again, “ I ask, and he does, and gives me his tongue, and when I bite it again, it’s slowly, sweetly, drawing him in to give me more and more until we’re both literally panting. I’ve been sitting on his lap for who knows how long - how did I get here? - and I’m so wet I can feel it on my thighs. His thick erection is nestling in the crook of my ass and I’m guessing James is just fine with that arrangement. Suddenly I realize what he wants - what I want - what all the afternoon’s teasing was leading to - of course. I knew it even then, just not in words.

I pull out of his grasp. “Hey.”

He takes a breath and opens his eyes. “Hey, yourself.”

I look at him for one long moment, his beautiful brown eyes sleepy with desire, the strong jaw, his full lips… Do I want this? Oh, fuck yes, yes I do. I want him to take me as intimately as any one human can take another, I want to be possessed utterly. _Oh, yes._

I smile, lips quirking up at the edges as I lean back to look at James directly. “Do we have any tequila?”

There’s a long - feels-like-a-hundred-years-long - blank pause. And then delighted laughter. When James finally gets ahold of himself, he beams. “Oh, yes, I feel certain we have tequila.”

I excuse myself to clean up a bit, and when I return, feeling lighter and more clear-headed, my naked bartender has lined up for me a classic shot of tequila with lime and salt rim, and next to it, a cold can of Red Bull. “Do you want them separately or together?“ he asks with a knowing grin, and it’s then that I know for sure he can read my mind. _Do all men the world over know secret of liquor mixed with Red Bull? Infuriating._ I look up at James, who is grinning in amusement. “Oh,” I say, drawing myself up to my full height, “Separately is fine.” And I stride right up to the bar and take the shot with no hesitation. Reaching for the can of Red Bull, I raise a brow to my bartender. “You win this round.”

His lips twitch, but he maintains a neutrality. Only his tongue wetting his lips betrays him. “Very good,” he says, and I can hear he’s on the edge of laughter. “But I do believe it’s mutual. We’ll see.”

Back in front of the fire I notice some additions - hand towels, a basin of water, lube. I’m both anxious and excited, and James reads it in my face and in my movements, stepping forward now and gathering me to him, simply holding me against his body until I’m relaxed. His smell, musky with his own arousal, is like a trail to follow, and I find myself nuzzling and licking his chest as we sink onto the pillows. Gently now, he tilts my chin to look at him, and looks at me searchingly.

“I’ve answered the question,” I say huskily.

“I knew you would,” he replies in a low voice, and kisses me deeply.


	49. Chapter 49

I’ve never known a man to use his voice like James Moriarty. In the quiet depths of the night, the only sounds are the crackling embers of the fire as it burns low, and the slow, satiated breaths we take, not yet ready to sleep but drowsy with satisfaction. James turns on his side so he can look at me, and tracing a finger down my cheek says, “I know what you gave me, Anaïs. I do love that you gave yourself to me so freely.” His voice is by turns: rich, intimate, possessive, and every so slightly dangerous. He runs his thumb over my lower lip. “It’s not the same, you know, to take something that’s merely being given to barter, or manipulate, or impress. It always falls hollow without trust, you see.”

His hair falls into his eyes as he looks at me, his dark eyes glimmering in the reflected firelight, and I suddenly think this is the most beautiful he’s ever been, and my heart breaks a little bit, just a small fissure, knowing how completely I’ve given myself to him now. _A beautiful disaster_. As it was the very first time, so it is now.

James chuckles. “Of course, the irony is that I’m not the sort of man to inspire that particular emotion - trust - and d’ya know, I’ve never really cared? But you - you, Anaïs - you say you don’t burn as I do, but you want to go there with me, you want to pull me down into the depths with you, and isn’t that just the same? You do burn from the inside, my dear - you just don’t yet use the world as your stage.”

_You do burn from the inside, my dear - you just don’t yet use the world as your stage_.

Jesus. What the fuck does that even mean? I’m nothing special, nobody special, but James says otherwise, he’s said so over and over again in both subtle and glaringly obvious ways, and there’s no doubt that James is the smartest man I’ve ever met. And yet…

“Tell me about him.” James voice is sleepy, yet extremely clear.

I start, involuntarily. I thought he was asleep, I thought my inner voices were heard by me alone. “Him?” I ask, to buy time as much as anything.

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Anaïs, it doesn’t suit you,” he says, and in the faint light from the fire I see he hasn’t yet even bothered to open his eyes.

“Why?” I ask, surprising myself. ”Why do you want to know?”

At this, his eyes do open, and he finds me immediately, no sleepy fog to rise through - one moment he’s delightfully soft and satiated, the next, he’s as aware as an adder prodded by a toe.

He raises his eyebrows and stretches, pale skin over long muscles, and then rises to put a log on the fire before answering. The wood catches with a bright flame that throws shadows across the walls as I watch James, nakedly himself in his gestures, stride to fetch another bottle of wine.

“Christ, we’ll be sorry in the morning, “ I say, and he laughs.

“If you were me, if you lived in my world, morning would come when you willed it so.” He smiles at me then, and I see so clearly it’s nearly imprinted on my ocular nerves, James shapes the world to his liking. It’s that simple. Why am I still so naive?

He brings me the wine flute, and an apple that he cuts with a beautifully carved pocket knife while we speak. He offers me a piece, off the blade of the knife, and I have some strange prickling at the back of my neck as I take it. _Why was the Tree of Knowledge an apple tree, after all? Oh, please. Snap out of it, this isn’t a morality play._ I give myself a mental shake, but somehow the imagery still remains. James watches all of this with a smile, amused, as he sits beside the fire.

“Why? Well, I’ve a dozen reasons, to be honest, but only one you need to hear.” He looks at me, his gaze piercing, and I feel suddenly transparent, my motivations hung up for examination like an x-ray by the intensity of his eyes. “He’s the reason you refuse me, is he not?”

I take a sharp breath. “Refuse you?”

James shakes his head, ever so slightly disappointed, and I feel it keenly, but I have to protect myself first. Surely he understands?

“Anaïs - this is the last time I’ll indulge you, your silly play at naiveté - it insults both of us. You know exactly what I mean.”

And he’s right - I do. I’m quiet for a long moment as all of it sinks in, everything from the beginning of my self-imposed isolation to meeting James, to this very moment - I let it all run across my mind, and then I sit up and look James in the eye. Good Lord, he’s beautiful, he makes my heart literally pound, to look at him. I’m afraid I might not live through this, through this love affair, by God, it’s already ripped my heart to shreds so many times and yet here I am, here I am again… _Christ._

I take a deep breath and find my hands clenching unconsciously. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I feel I should have learned something from that absolute disaster, and the only thing I know is - alone is safe. Alone is where I’m protected. I’m sorry. I know that’s childish. But until you - it’s been a perfectly functional way to be.” I look up at him, horrified as I feel the tear escaping and running down my cheek. Another follows, and in moments, I feel tears running down my face and I no longer know what to do. “I’m so sorry,” I say, voice low. “I didn’t know - I’m sorry.”

James watches me for a minute longer before standing. It’s three brief steps to me and he kneels, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me against his chest. “No. No, lass, stop it. Enough. ENOUGH.”

And in case you’re wondering - when James Moriarty says “ENOUGH” - whatever you’re doing simply ceases. My tears stop as quickly as they began and I feel his will as strongly as I’d ever felt it, willing me to not just be strong, but rather to find my strength, unearth it - and accept what it entails. I take a deep, shuddering breath, letting myself mourn the fear and anxiety that’s been my constant companion this last year, the guilt and recrimination - and then, in a breath, it’s done.

In a moment where his arms are around me I suddenly know - know like it’s always been a part of my blood and bone - that there’s no longer anything to cry about. The past is the past. I have a new future, and yes - just as James does - I shape my world. I smile, my head tucked against his chest, and wrap my arms around him.

He reaches down to kiss the top of my head. “Tell me the story, then,” he says, reading me with his uncanny accuracy. “I can’t fix something without knowing what it is. One can’t solve an equation without data.”

I blink. “What is it that you think requires fixing?”

I can feel him laugh, his chest rises against my cheek. “Besides refusing me, do ya mean? Because I don’t take a refusal lightly, my love. You should know this.” His voice is soft, but I don’t doubt, not even a little bit, that he’s being EXACTLY accurate. And the thought makes me smile in my newfound self.

I stretch into him. “I’ll tell you a bedtime story, oh, certainly - only because you ask and I’m happy to make you happy. But I’ll accept or refuse on my terms, no one else’s. Not his, not yours. Just to be clear.”

There’s a stillness in James, just for a second, hardly even long enough to register, and then delight. “Oh, Anaïs, I do like you. One hardly ever has to tell you anything twice.” I turn to look up at him and see his dark eyes sparkle, and then his hands are on my jaw, holding me still as he leans down, his full lips taking mine for his own. “Go on, then,” he whispers against my jaw. “Impress me.”

_What an absolute bastard. ‘Impress me’, my ass. Checkmate, mate. Either way, either way… dammit!_

I roll it around, but I can’t find any way but to do what James wants. I guess I should be happy that he’s better at being a manipulative asshat than I am, but at the moment, it’s just annoying. Still, I owe him for my newly hatched skin, for pushing me past self-indulgence.

“James…”

I feel him smile against my forehead. “Yes, love.”

“... I secretly hate you.” I breathe the words into his ear and he flat giggles. He loves it, knowing he’s won, yet again. Vanity - it’s his weakness. I file it away for another day.

“His name is Michael Wallace-Thomas. Anglican.” I laugh to myself, remembering. “That inspired many heated moments, as you might imagine. But it’s unwise to be a politician and be Catholic. The Kennedys tried it, with their wealth and influence, and you see how that ended. And Michael was a politician before he was a God-fearing man - far, far before. If he ever was.” I shrug. “He’s… striking, yet conventional - just as a candidate should be - dark hair, silver showing through and through…” I tighten my lips, remembering just how he looked the night I met him, like an older James Caan, the silver hair and crow’s feet just adding distinction, and when he smiled at me, his white teeth were perfectly straight and his nails, I noticed, perfectly manicured, not a hangnail to be found. _I should have known then,_ I think, and grimace.

“He was nearly old enough to be my father, almost. Close enough. I was doing a profile of his campaign manager, Joss - he was up and coming because he led the whole campaign for fluoridation - you know about this? - it got voted down but he gained a ton of exposure. So I was interviewing him and he was eager to show me his newest acquisition - the candidate for State Senate out of Orange County, but this time - it’s practically unheard of - a Democrat. And, you know, Michael was working the greeting line, shaking hands and kissing babies, and when he took my hand and looked at me, it was like a small skip in the matrix - we just looked at each other and I smiled and moved on, but the moment he was done, he found me. He chatted me up. He’s brilliant.” I shrug. “That’s what I fell in love with - his mind. He got his Masters at Berkeley in Environmental Science before his law degree. We had the best debates, really… I loved arguing a point with him, that’s what really drew us together. Well… that’s just my opinion. I’ve no idea what he thinks, now.” I sigh, watching the fire flicker. “And I’ve no idea why he decided the rough trade of politics made more sense than academia - but I could ask the same of you, frankly. Power, I suppose - that’s the correct answer in both cases, no?”

James nods, the corners of his mouth turning up as he watches me.

I’ve never talked about this chapter of my life to anyone, and to my surprise it feels freeing. “He did take the Bar and practice, you know, but that was only to set up his political career. Like you, he was ambitious from early on. But you’re much more honest about it.” I look away from him. “I mean, I was stupid. No one gets that far in politics without being ruthless. But you’d never know it, he’s so fucking smooth, he never showed me any of it - or maybe I just never saw it. I didn’t look hard enough. But he was lovely to me, always. Well, -” I shake my head, “- until I met the real Michael.” I bite my lip, feeling the tears threatening. But no, absolutely not. I have to be cold about this, it happened, this is what happened, that’s all.  It’s not exorcising demons as much as it’s excising them. And there is a difference.

James rises now, and grabs the bottle of wine. Refilling our glasses, he places the bottle back in its ice bath and sinks down next to me, watching me carefully. I look at him, his beautiful face. It’s a conundrum. “How much do you want to know?” I ask, finally.

His voice when he answers is just above a whisper. He raises his brows, and his generous lips shape the word deliberately: “Everything.”

_Everything_.

 


	50. Chapter 50

“Jesus, James,” I say, closing my eyes and wincing. I have no desire to relive it, none at all. But it happened, and I wonder if avoiding it doesn’t give it power over me - isn’t that what James is trying to say, that one should face things as they are, neither hidden nor magnified? I take a deep breath and open my eyes. He’s watching me intently yet with curious stillness. Suddenly I have an urge to break through that particularly removed countenance James wears as a matter of course, and my next words are purposeful in their honesty.

“Everything? Really?” I purse my lips. “Okay. Okay.” I nod and take a deep breath before continuing. “Michael - he was everything to me. Everything. I was never bored. He was fucking brilliant, and he knew people - he knew me, he had me figured out from the get-go. When to flirt, when to hold back, when I wanted him, when I was afraid.” I shrug. “He’d been a politician for so long, it’s probably second nature to him. But I - I was naivé, I’d never known anyone who could anticipate my thoughts, my dreams. Someone who could read me, read my desires, my fears… He never talked down to me, he always treated me like I had a brain as good as his, if not as educated. And I could win, you know, I was right often enough to keep playing.” I turn and look at James, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Sounds familiar, eh? Apparently I have a type.”

James just smiles easily. “We all have our predispositions, Anaïs. What matters is the result, the destination. The starting point - that can go any number of ways, aye? I have a theory - it’s a small theory - that we just replay these predispositions until we come up with a satisfactory conclusion. In which case, you’re in luck.”

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows and smile. “If your theory holds true, luck has nothing to do with it, but I AM smart as hell.”

James laughs appreciatively. “Very good! But - don’t distract me, my dear. Tell me the story.”

“Yeah, okay.” I shrug. “We met for coffee. We met for dinner. We took walks through the Capitol Rose Garden, arguing politics, ideas, things I thought mattered. We had political arguments via texts at four in the morning. He sent me flowers. He sent me limousines when he wanted to see me. He never touched me. He was smart that way.”

Now I’m the one to get up and pace. I fill our wine glasses and stare into the fire. It’s hypnotic, but James is right - I need to stay present with this, otherwise it owns me, not vice versa. And for all that’s happened, that is simply not acceptable.

I glance at James, but he’s keeping himself under wraps admirably. He nods ever so slightly, and I take a sip of my wine and look away. “He let me make all the moves. I knew he was married. His kids were in school, both at universities in Europe. Not a factor. And she stayed in Dana Point, she didn’t want to be in the everyday, it had become a purely business arrangement. They would never divorce. I knew that. And I used Rich to confirm. So I was shameless, once I knew that I could arrange this scenario to suit my morals. Yeah. I’m not proud of it. I did what I wanted.”

James nods again, but somehow I take strength from him and continue.

“Weeks into it, we’d become that couple, the kind that couldn’t sleep without that one last text, that three-hour long phone call… Finally, I just took it into my own hands, telling myself he’d never make a move to compromise his marriage -” I laugh bitterly “- Yeah, yeah, I actually believed that, JESUS -” I take a deep breath now and down the remains of my wine. “So one night he was finishing a committee meeting late, and we met on the Capitol Steps and walked through the park and his limo was waiting and when we were in the back I just - I reached for him - and it was like a riot had broken out. I’d never - I had no idea - I wasn’t prepared at all, and I think - maybe it’s vanity, but I really think he wasn’t either. But there it was. Total, complete, compelling lust.” I shrug again, but I can’t look at James. “Yeah.”

But James watches me like a science experiment, his eyes narrowed.

I shrug again, and turn away. “I visited him at his office in the Capitol, after a late-night session… We fucked on his desk, he’d won the vote, and I’d won him - that was my take. It never got boring, even when we knew each other better. We couldn’t live together, not officially, but he moved to a larger house in Land Park that we chose together and I was in charge of all the remodeling, all the designs - I made all the decisions. I stayed there six nights a week, at least. It was my house as much as his, and his wife came up only twice, only when there was an important political event that she had to attend. She knew, I know she knew. She didn’t give a shit, she had all the money, and didn’t have to pretend to care, and I heard she was fucking her hot 36-year-old massage therapist. So - yeah. So what. I kept my apartment, but I didn’t live there. Michael was my life. He was my fucking life.” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice, but I’m afraid I do a very poor job.

I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes, but I shake that off. _No. Fuck you, no._ I simply will not give in to that, to sentiment. _Never again._

James stands and takes my glass from me, refilling it. When he comes to stand in front of me, I meet his eyes, flatly. “I don’t think you understand,” I say. “He took all of that - my belief, my faith, my love, my naiveté - he took it all.” I laugh, but it isn’t a funny sound. “I loved him. I can’t - it’s just - I’d like to, but there isn’t anything left. He took that from me.”

James nods, not at all threatened, which is the most interesting reaction he could possibly have, from my perspective. “Anaïs, love - pray continue. Data is everything to me.” I take my glass, and he places his hands around my waist, his fingers on my hips. I feel his breath on my neck and he whispers in my ear, “You think you’re the only one with a checkered past, love? Go on, you’re draining a wound, are ye not? See if I’m not right - continue, you’ll feel lighter, less encumbered.”

And he’s right, it feels better to tell than to hold it inside, festering.

I take the glass from James and turn away from him and from the fire, walking toward the dark two-story window over the vineyards. _Jesus._ I take a breath and continue. “He was so smart, all the time he made such small decisions, little choices that I couldn’t argue with, things that shaped us, but it was one small thing after another so that I almost didn’t even notice… But he was busy with an agenda - to make me give in. That’s the best way I can describe it, but it’s way too dramatic. He was pulling a power play, but I didn’t even know, really - not until it had already happened.”

I turn back to the fire, pacing. “It was subtle. Slowly, quietly, he began to undermine me. My thoughts, my contributions. And then my attraction to him - it was suddenly out of place. Like every time I wanted him, or showed him, it was wrong. Soon to be followed by jealousy, of course.” I shake my head, angry. “I never had any thought for anyone else, no one. He just wanted an excuse. And you know what? It worked. It fucking worked. I wanted him to be happy, but suddenly I couldn’t do anything right, so I just - I just tried harder.”

There’s a long pause where I try to think of how to say what’s next, how to explain, but James just remains quiet, his face impassive. Finally I shrug. “Long story short, Michael had me coming and going, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong and how to fix it, until I didn’t even know what to think anymore… And when he got angry, he started to intimidate me, make me back down - like first it was just words, you know? But then he started getting in my face, you know, pushing me against a wall, shaking me…” My voice trails off. “I just - I couldn’t believe it. You could ask any of our friends - his friends, now - and they would all say, every one of them, that he would never do that, never. But he did. He most certainly did. And when I left, he told our friends that it was a story I had made up because he wouldn’t divorce his wife and marry me.” I laugh bitterly. “And you know what? They all believed him. Every one. Every single one of the friends I thought I had - not one called me, and not one would take my calls.”

I turn now, and walk to James, looking at him directly. “That’s power. That’s what power does. That’s why I can never trust you. Even if I wish I could. I learned my lesson, and it can’t be unlearned. I’m sorry.”


	51. Chapter 51

James smiles, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Oh, my dear -”  He rises and moves to me, kissing my cheek. “Did you sign a lease?”

“A lease?” Confused, I shake my head.

“At the very least. Or a contract, a sales contract of any kind, a mortgage...anything?”

My brows are drawn together. “No. No. Should I have?”

James laughs, but not unkindly, and sighs. “Anaïs, I hope you have learned the real lesson of that unfortunate situation: Never give a man something on credit unless you’re prepared to get nothing in return.” He kisses down my neck and despite my best intentions I feel myself respond. “You have confused me with someone lesser. But I understand your thoughts. I see the similarities. And I agree - power is a delicate and heady responsibility, and few handle it with grace. But let’s start here: Do you love the farm?”

Well, of course I do. It would be foolish to say otherwise.  “I do.”

James nods, satisfied. “It’s yours. It would be best to sign the deed under a trust fund, one that can take care of your expenses regardless of your marketing success, but you can do as you like.” He shrugs. “Either way. It’s yours. Ask your attorney. If it’s best to be out of your name, that’s fine. I’ll have my legal team contact you with their ideas about the best strategy for the farm as a non-profit, but you’re not obligated to follow them. It’s yours, it will always be yours. You have a home.” He raises his striking eyebrows. “Now - and always. It’s yours.”

I am speechless. James looks at me, nodding. “I’m giving you something I can’t take take away, do you see?” He shrugs, and smiles at me winningly. “I like to pay my debts in advance.”

I try to find words, but my mind stutters. After a moment of sheer weightlessness, I find my feet again, and nod, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I - yes. I do understand. I do. And - thank you, but - I need to know: Why me? Why are you doing this?” I shake my head. “I don’t get my part in the equation, James. I’m sorry - I never was good at math.”

At this, James laughs, amused and affectionate. “You never bothered, you never learned. Nice try, though.” His eyes are dark and shining, delighted. “Why am I doing this?” He shrugs, and his lips twitch with the effort to stay serious. “Why do I do most things, Anaïs?”

I look at him, my lips parting, yet wordless. I raise my brows in question.

James - my beautiful narcissist - smiles now, quite pleased. “Because I can.” He shrugs, and the look he gives me is as possessive as any I’ve ever seen. “Do I need any other reason?”

I sit up, spine straight. It’s so annoying to be given these half-answers when it’s my life - MY LIFE- we’re discussing. “I’m not signing.”

James narrows his eyes. “Sorry?”

“This is my fucking LIFE, James. Answer my questions with real data or I’m walking away. I most STRENUOUSLY object to being nothing more than a source of amusement.”

James giggles, and puts up a hand to stifle it, looking away. When he meets my eyes, he has a grip, but still his eyes betray his affection. “I actually believe you would spite your dreams to keep your ego satisfied, Anaïs. Interesting. But don’t bother on my account - I’ve already said, I’m sure you’ll know all my secrets in time. You’re just so American - Americans are always dreadfully  impatient.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste.

My fury - most likely at myself, but who knows in the moment? - betrays me, and I do exactly what I’ve just objected to being done - I stride to James and slap him as hard as I can, across the face. The difference? He laughs. I cowered. There you have it.

“Oh!” He smiles at me. “You’re angry. I love it when you’re provoked, my dear, you’re so - free.” His last word is just a whisper, but it carries.

“Free? Are you fucking kidding me?” I’m so angry, my words come out in a hiss.

But James just smiles broadly, brows raised. “Oh, yes - free. Do you not remember the first weekend at my flat?” James nods as he looks into my eyes. “Free to leave your petty conventions and insecurities by the wayside. Free to reveal your true self. Admit it, Anaïs - if only someone would give you permission, you would be an absolutely ruthless ruler.”

And the motherfucker has the audacity to actually wink at me, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. Insufferable bastard.

 _Christ._ I watch him for a long moment. No argument comes to mind, no quick words to refute his assertion, and he can see it in my face. I turn away, quickly, pulling my short satin robe around me as I move to the window. The night is a mix of low clouds and bright stars, and I briefly pull myself away long enough to give thanks for this beauty. When I open my eyes, I see James’ reflection in the glass, angular cheekbones and shadows for eyes, and I turn so I can see the flesh and not the ghost. He moves just a step to me, waiting for my subtle nod of permission, and brushes my hair out of my face, fingertips gently brushing against my temple.

“My love, I don’t know what else I could do.” His voice is soft, caressing. “You must decide for yourself, aye? Who do you want to be? Small, because of a man, or larger than you’ve ever known, because of a man? Either way, you shouldn’t delude yourself. Alone doesn’t suit you - not at all.”

I stare at him, lost in the depths of his dark eyes, and then something possesses me to echo his gesture, running my fingers over his temples, his cheekbones, and down to his deliciously full lips. He allows this with a smile only from his eyes. His beautiful face is mine for the moment. I let the lightest touch of my fingers trace his perfect brows, the subtle furrows of his forehead, his widow’s peak, and then I find my hands in his hair, and suddenly I’m cupping the back of his head and my lips and teeth find his with a compressed ferocity. I can almost taste his delight, and I’m sure he can taste the mix of anger and desire in my mouth as I search for an answer, any answer, but I come up short, and James shakes his head as we separate.

“I can’t answer for you, Anaïs, and neither will I influence your decision. You think alone protects you? Let’s see how it does this time around.” He moves to me, and kisses my lips sweetly. “It’s been a lovely weekend, my dear.”

And while I stand speechless, he walks down the hall clothed only in his robe, but with the stride of a man who owns the world.   

The clouds have parted now, and the moon and stars shine brightly over the rolling hills of the wine country. I stand and stare out the two-story window over this romantic tableau, until I hear the throaty growl of the Audi pull out of the drive. _Jesus_.

I miss my dogs.

I’m long overdue to go home.

The sun is coming up as Mason glances at me in the rearview mirror. I see a note of concern as he takes in the look on my eyes, but he only says, “Shall we pick up the dogs on the way, miss?” I look at him and our eyes meet in the mirror for just a moment. _He owns both of us, you know._ There’s just the slightest nod. “Yes,” I say, “that would be lovely.”

At the condo, I pet the dogs endlessly, rolling on the bed with them, and then walk them through the park, but at last they are reassured that I am really home, and I have a chance to be quiet and alone in a safe space, and what do I do? Pace.

I walk around the apartment, picking things up, things that hold meaning and things there just for aesthetics, and I look at them and set them down again, brooding. What is this life I’ve created? What holds real meaning? What would I be willing to sacrifice, and what would I protect? I need to know, I actually really need to know; it’s no longer a philosophical exercise - it’s my life, here, and I dissect it like an anthropologist.

There’s the framed photo of me and my sister at my mother’s memorial; the stock-pin I was wearing at my first show; the hand-carved wooden bowl I brought back from my first solo road trip, a dried flower arrangement I made from my mother’s garden, a set of bookends shaped like sea shells, win photos of my racehorses from the track, prints of the structure of a Gothic cathedral, a crystal vase that once held flowers Michael sent me, a recycled glass bowl of lavender buds.   _What is all this, really? This is me, this is all I have to tell me who I am…_

_Christ._

_I have no idea, do I?_

The next morning I sleep late, I’m totally due. Over coffee, I review the fields for my racehorses this week and vow to be a better owner, more prepared, more in contact, but then I realize that most trainers think the best possible owner is one who leaves decisions to the trainer and simply pays the bills. But that’s not me, and although I try to keep out of Dell’s way, I find it too fascinating to leave it alone. Besides, claiming races or no claiming races, these animals are in my care and never asked for this job, and it’s up to me to make sure they’re managed properly. Paying their way isn’t enough. Just as James writing a check for the farm isn’t enough. I need to know he actually cares for my well-being. Otherwise, I’m just another acquisition, and that’s not on my agenda, not at all.

 

It’s been too long, I think, as I walk through the backside of the track to Dell’s barn, dodging horses and bicycles and hot-walkers and grooms. I love this place, there’s nothing like it, the backstretch of a racetrack. It’s shoddy and dusty and heartfelt and beautiful, all at once.

“Hey, lady,” I say as I walk up the dirt aisle and find Dell on her knees in the bedding straw, wrapping an ankle with white tape, a cigarette dangling from her lips. I shake my head as she looks up. “Incorrigible. Are you seriously not ever worried about -”

She smiles, and rises to her full height of perhaps five feet. “I ain’t changing my ways now, you know that.”

“How’s everyone looking?”

“Of yours? Terrific. No worries, they’re in the money this week.” She gives her patient a pat and moves out of the stall, joining me in the barn aisle and crushing out her cigarette in the dirt. “But I’ve got a problem, really, I’m just - I hate this, I hate this business sometimes…  Another owner, they’re all business, I don’t think their horse is gonna come back, I dunno…” her voice trails off. She shakes her head, and looks at me. “He’s done, his suspensory... he can’t race again, Anaïs. And I know what they’re gonna say: Send him to Mexico.” Her voice catches. “I can’t - I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that…”

She looks at me, and I see her horror: This business.

Oh, this business. I hate it and love it in equal means. Sending him to Mexico means sending him to the knackers, sending him to his death. He’ll fetch a price per pound, so his owners will make something back from his loss. I tighten my lips. Holy fuck, I hate this so much. I understand the idea of business, but these aren’t widgets, for fuck’s sakes. They’re living, breathing creatures that work and strive and endure pain for us, for our financial well-being - who could be so cold-hearted to slaughter them when they’re no longer useful? Oh, you’d be surprised, you’d be shocked at how many owners look the other way, look only at their bottom line…

“Jesus, Dell…”

“I know, I don’t know what to do, everyone’s full, I’ve got all my feelers out, but it’ll be at least a year before light riding. And what can I do? I’d keep him myself, but you know I can’t afford it…” She shakes her head, frowning, and she’s not lying - like most trainers, she’s walking a delicate line between solvency and debt, and can’t afford a non-productive stall. It sucks, and it’s sad, but that’s the reality. Produce, or move on.

I glance at her, her face tight with displeasure. I touch her arm, lightly, and she looks up. “Who is it?”

She looks over at me. “Sherman.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. First time owners have by-passed the rule that a horse can’t be named after an actual individual by naming their gelding “Rich Yard Sherman”, honoring the brash, outspoken Seattle Seahawks cornerback. Unfortunately, he’s not in a position for my laughter to be appropriate, and I swallow it as I see Dell’s look. “Sorry, I know. I wish I could do something.”

“I don’t see an answer,” she says, and steps just ahead of me so I can’t see her face. “He leaves Monday.”


	52. Chapter 52

“Ah, Tiger, it’s been too long.” James practically purrs with satisfaction as he walks into his living room to find Sebastian leaning back on the chaise lounge, his lean, well-muscled body clothed only in a pair of grey sweatpants, copper hair still wet from the shower.

Sebastian sets down his tablet and narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Ye look entirely too pleased with yourself, Jaime, you’re up to no good, aye?”

James flashes Sebastian his most charismatic smile and raises his brows mischievously, and Seb is transported back twenty years for one breathtaking moment before regaining stasis. James watches this play out in a millisecond and his smile widens. “Good, no good, what does that even mean, Sebastian?” James runs a hand over his dark hair, ensuring not a strand is out of place. “I feel certain I’m doing good in my own - distinctive - way. I certainly never deliberately plan to do bad, you know that.” He shrugs as he removes his jacket. “It’s all a matter of perspective.” He hangs his jacket on the back of a chair, and unknots his tie, watching Seb all the while, and when he reaches to unbutton his shirt and roll up his sleeves, he moves to stand in front of Seb, so the lanky redhead has to look up at him.

Sebastian smiles, it’s such a blatant power-play, and as with everything with James, so sexually charged, Sebastian can’t help but laugh. _Bastard._ But it never gets old, that’s the thing, the truly inexplicable thing. Sebastian has seen James do this a hundred times, maybe even a thousand times, and each and every time he’s caught up in James’ halo, his charisma, that indefinable something that makes him as electric as a neon sign and twice as pretty. Seb shakes his head. “Let me grab a shirt,” he says, resigned, “I’m guessing we’re going for a walk.”

James glances down Seb’s body, his eyes flicking across his broad chest before slowly traveling up to meet his icy grey eyes. “Well, I do indeed have a job to discuss, but there’s no rush, Tiger. I fancy a change of clothes myself.”

And when he turns and walks down the hall, unbuttoning his shirt on the way, Sebastian rises and finds himself following, as easily and as surely as if he were a tiger on a golden leash. And while he hates himself for it in equal measure to how much he loves it, it never gets old - there is that.

 

Sebastian runs easily, tailoring his stride to stay with James as they jog along the flat, paved path of the Embarcadero. The winds whips in off the bay, cooling his skin, but his focus is on the plan James outlines as the sidewalk, lined with palm trees, winds past the Ferry Building and on to the ports and piers of the bay. They run in silence for a few minutes as Sebastian lays it out in his mind, envisioning how it will go. He slows to a walk, and stands, hands on his hips, shaking his head when James comes back to look at him. “That’s a terrible plan, Jaime. You’re barking mad if ye think this is going to work in your favor.”

James stops, looking at Sebastian, black hair blowing across his face. “A terrible plan? Do you doubt me, then?”

Sebastian takes a deep breath, and commits himself to an action he hasn’t revisited for decades: Honesty. “I’ll tell ye, I’ve no idea what you’re on about anymore. This is flat foolish, and why, Jaime, WHY? I don’t care a whit if you want her, that’s your business. But this -” Sebastian shakes his head, and looks out at the gorgeous vista of the water and the rolling hills of the east bay. “- This isn’t like you. You don’t really understand the repercussions, aye, that’s as I see it. And I can’t believe - I just - is it really a woman that’s brought you to this?”

James looks up at the man who’s been his companion for two decades, the man who knows him better than any other individual in the entire world, and echoes his gesture, shaking his head before turning away and spitting on the dock. “You’re short-sighted, Sebastian. Imagine a sniper being short-sighted!” James laughs. “But that’s why I’m the mastermind and you’re not, love. Bit sad you lack faith in me, though.”

Sebastian turns now, facing James, all broad shoulders and wide chest as he looks down at the man he calls home, and takes a deep breath. “Ye know, strategically, I’ll not lie to ye - I’ve an issue with the plan, but I trust you’ve seen the weaknesses of it just as well as I have. No, it’s not that, not at all. What I’m trying to impress upon ye - you’re lacking if you think you understand women, love. Ye have no idea, aye, and I’m not surprised, not a bit, given you’ve cared to try exactly once - which is now.”

James steps forward, his face compressed, eyes narrowed, as he looks into Sebastian’s eyes. “Oh, really, Tiger? And I suppose you’re an expert?”

“Not a bit, Jaime. No man should be such a fool as to say he’s an expert on women. That‘s a straight path on a winding road to disaster, yeah? But I will say this -” Seb places his hand on James, his shoulder, and then, when James doesn't object, his jaw, rubbing his thumb along the dark stubble he loves, “You've no clue, mate. I’d be willing to make a wager she’s a goner within ten minutes of all this.”

****  


The tote board flashes long odds on my horse in the third race, which is fine by me. I place a small bet on both of my horses as much for luck as with any idea of actually cashing them in, and glance down at my program for the hundredth time, but I’m not really reading it. I can’t stop thinking about the farm, and Dell’s horse, and all the horses that could be rehabbed, retrained, and adopted. I want it desperately, I want to make it happen, but it can’t be that simple, can it? Is anything straightforward with James?

_Think, Anaïs. James may have many flaws, but he does keep his word. If he says the farm is yours, it’s yours. And remember what he said about things being given freely? Whatever he wants from you, it’s something you’ll want to give him, otherwise he wouldn’t enjoy it, right? So ease your mind on that part of the equation._

_So that just leaves the moral and ethical implications of having your dream financed by crime and violence, eh?_

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter to myself as I walk to the rail and watch the horses warm up. They’re so innocent, all heart and willingness and beauty. We ask so much of them and give so little in return. I actually feel my heart contract and feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. I don’t really care about people, not really, I realize. People make choices. What did James say - _Protect the innocent and to hell with all the rest._

But I don’t know, can I really be so callous, so compartmentalized? So ruthless, as James proclaimed? I don’t feel ruthless at all and yet - to protect what I love? Would I kill? Absolutely, there’s no doubt. But it’s easy to answer that when it’s spoken of as a direct threat - it’s much more challenging when it’s a step or two removed, like a game of chess, really. And that’s where those trained in battle and those with the mind to see far along a plan of action have advantage over someone like myself. They can see the long chain of events and consequences. Can I?

_Does it even matter if you can, Anaïs? You want to rationalize this so your ‘conscience’ is appeased, but the truth is, this is what you want, and think about this: Walk away. What happens next? If you really walk away, and hold fast. What happens?_

_Christ._

I find I’ve been biting my knuckle this whole time, and I willfully relax until I can breathe normally, and then walk along the grandstand to the bar in search of a pint. Once in hand, I head for a table and gather myself together, taking long sips of my ale. Okay. Think it through.

_So you’ve walked away, you’ve disowned James and all of the horrible things he’s done, yeah? And then what?_

There’s a very, very long pause, while another part of myself observes the horses in post parade and stands to see them turn to the gate. There’s no answer from my alter ego, none at all.

My horse has the 3 hole, and he looks so good, pacing up to the gate like he owns the track, and I’m so proud of him - and in a stupidly self-conscious flash, I realize this is the horse that James sent to Dell for me, _“Opportunity Knocks.”_

_Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? Did you forget?_

The horses are lined up at the moving starting gate now, noses practically pressed onto the metal web of the gate, and just before the starter’s car accelerates and moves away, I get my answer from that part of my brain I tend to both ignore and revere: _And then what happens is you wonder forever more what might have been.The end. Next caller go ahead._

The starter’s car pulls away in a mighty burst of acceleration and they’re off and pacing, and my horse tucks in nicely just two horses down at the rail around the first turn. The field jockeys for position along the backstretch of the track, but it’s all happenstance to my boy, as he conserves himself for the big move - and move he does, around the second turn, as his driver pulls him out sharply to cut off a contender, and gives my boy his head, and he takes off like he’s been in second gear all this time and someone finally pressed the accelerator.

_Holy shit!_

I’m on my feet as he hits the quarter-mile pole. He’s in a perfect rhythm, and I can see the driver is urging him on with only his body, no whip, and “Opportunity” pulls to the outside to pass the horse in second and begins to chase after the leader, and damn it, it’s the 8th pole, it’s too late, but no - this amazing horse is all heart, he pours on every bit of effort, and at the 16th mile pole he’s neck-and-neck with the leader and his driver, I can see it, he wants to go for the whip but wisely he doesn't, this horse is giving everything he has, and the leader has been out front just a few strides too long, he’s tired, and my horse reaches out just as the wire approaches, just that one extra moment of effort - and he wins, he fucking wins by a nose, by god, he’s done it!

I’m hopping up and down, screaming, what fucking heart that horse has, Jesus Christ, that last stride - and right then, I’m struck: _Fuck it, I don’t give a damn if it’s right or wrong, I love them far too much…_ and then I realize I have the answer: _What happens if you disavow James, if you really and truly walk away forever? Easy. You regret it forever. It’s just that simple. You’ll always wonder, Anaïs. Always._

Well, then.

I stride to the winner's circle, head held high, and congratulate Dell, pat my lovely horse, and smile like an idiot in the win picture. Then I walk out into the night and do what seems to have been obvious since that night so long ago that James borrowed my program.

I pick up my phone.

 


	53. Chapter 53

I’m not going to lie - I’ve lived my life on the basis of “Fuck it -” but I don't recommend it as as a life strategy. Still, I’d rather regret my actions than my inaction.

I swipe through my contacts, and place the call that now feels deliciously inevitable. It rings just once on my end.

“Anaïs…” James drawls, his voice drawing me in, “What a lovely win. I’m chuffed, I’m really so happy the horse lived up to his name,” he says before I have a chance to speak.

I wait just a moment before replying. “In more ways than one.”

There’s a pause as my words sink in, and then I can practically hear his smile.

“I knew you’d make the smart choice, my dear.”

“Oh?”

“You have a good mind. I’ve said so from the start.”

_From the start._

And now his words sink in and I find myself smiling as I turn, knowing, suddenly, what I’ll see.

A slender, dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit with a bit of the polish and gleam I associate with bankers and high-priced attorneys walks across the tarmac, phone to his ear.

“ _Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in sæcula sæculorum_ ,” I quote. I’m willing to bet that he’ll appreciate it fully. He is Irish, after all...

“Oh, yes,” he says into the phone as he meets my eyes, ” _As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be - world without end_. How very appropriate. I _do_ like you,” he says with emphasis as he puts the phone into his inside pocket, and we stand face to face.

I follow his lead, hitting ‘end’ almost absentmindedly as I’m drawn into his dark eyes. “James.”

“My dear,” he says, and the corners of his mouth turn up as he raises a hand to trace my jaw. “I’m so pleased. I would have missed you, you know.”

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. I shrug, helplessly, and James pulls me into his arms, his head buried in my hair. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” I whisper back, “That’s what scares me.”

We both laugh and suddenly we’re past it, past the awkwardness, and I grab his hair in a strangely possessive gesture and pull his mouth to mine. I feel him hesitate, just a moment, as he decides if this falls within the parameters of our newly declared partnership, and then he relaxes into my touch and raises his lips to meet mine.

So here we are.

_World without end_.

“I want to do as you’ve asked,” he says as the last race passes the finish line, “but I have a surprise for you as well.”

I blink, confused. It’s been a merry night, with more than a few pints, and I wonder if I’m thinking straight.

Seeing my expression, James laughs, and pulls me to him. “You’ve just a few nights left at the condo, and I’ve arranged for it to be safe for me to stay with you tonight, if you’d like.”

“Oh? I’d love it, you know I would,” I say, grinning like mad. “But what’s this about a surprise? Surely the farm is more than enough…”

James smiles now, and when I really look at him I realize it’s a smile more for himself than for me. “This is less permanent, but more - hmm, more about wrapping up loose ends. You know I never do things by half, love. Not to worry. It’ll take me a few days to arrange it. But for now -” he kisses my neck lightly, “- shall we head home?”

I know I don’t have the full story, but I’m starting to be used to that, and I do have James under my hands, against my flesh, and isn’t that enough? It is for today, for the moment, and I press my fingers into his shoulder as he leads the way to his car and Mason opens the door. “Miss,” he says, and I nod. This is my life. I’ve chosen.

The dogs greet us with simple joy and after we’ve walked them and they’ve gone to sleep we do the simplest of acts, stripping off our clothes as we watch each other, this common, ordinary room, this common, ordinary act - and it’s like a ritual, it’s a blessing. James opens his hands in benediction and I move to him like he’s my confessor, but what we do next isn’t fit for the uninitiated, not at all.

“James…”

Days have passed in a haze.

“Yes, love?”

I’m sleepy and satiated, and the sunlight playing off the bay and through the windows of his flat makes me tuck my head into his arms.

“I really need to go home today. I’ve loved this, the last week - but there’s so much to be done.”

“Oh,” he smiles, turning on his side, “...which home are you referring to?”

“Well, I’m sort of between the worlds, but really I mean one of the two places that isn’t this flat, frankly. I never get anything done here but shagging you.”

James laughs, delighted, and leans to kiss me. “Pity.”

“You’re not the only game in town, you know,” I say, but I’m lying through my teeth and we both know it.

James kisses me, his full lips teasing me with the lightest of touches, and then he relents, laying back upon the pillows. “What’s really left to be done? Your flat is basically packed - the rest is nothing - and my attorneys already have your non-profit sorted out. It’s a matter of interviews, aye? Your barn manager, trainers, front office? That’s easy enough. So it’s all a matter of scheduling. How does tomorrow sound?” He reaches for me, and as I tuck against him his lips trace a path down my spine.

“James - I can’t just languish in your arms, you know. I’m not made that way. I need to get things done.” I pull away, just a millimeter, enough to be able to speak clearly.

“Ach - You slay me, love. Well, I have something for us this afternoon, and then I swear, you’re the mistress of your own domain, aye?”

“This afternoon? What is it?”

“Oh, it’s a gift. I’ll not say more.”

His look is past mischievous, it’s verging on maniacal. _What on Earth?_ There’s no point in pressing him, I can see it won’t get me anywhere and would probably only annoy him, so I let it go. “When do we have to get up, then?”

He smiles down at me, his eyes flicking over my lips, down my shoulders, and over my breasts before smiling at me. “No rush.”

Later, when I think back on the day, I wonder about his response. He had an inkling I’d respond the way I did, I’m sure of it, and gave me (and maybe himself, who knows how his mind really works) plenty of sensory memories to cloud the rational. And it worked, didn’t it?

In the town car, he’s silent, but fidgets with barely suppressed anticipation. I’ve never seen him like this - so wired - and I don’t know what’s in store, but I’m sure I’m probably not prepared for it. Just a guess.

I want to reach for his hand, but when I look over at him, I hesitate - and he catches me looking, and turns his head, smiling broadly. His hands grasp mine. “This is a good day, I just feel it,” he says, licking his lips, and I see his pupils are huge, dark orbs. “Redemption - it’s not something we get to enjoy every day, you know. But - to have the tables turned, to hold the upper hand -” he sighs with satisfaction. “It’s delicious.”

I choose my words carefully. “What are you referring to, actually? Where are we going?” I ask.

But he just shakes his head, smiling. “You’ll see.”

The car turns onto the Bay Bridge and in a remarkably clear sky I can see the Oakland Hills and the rolling gold and green landscape of the East Bay, and closer, Treasure Island, which we pass without speaking. Once over the remarkably long bridge, the town car turns towards the industrial area of the Port of Oakland, all docks and warehouses, remarkably deserted on a Sunday afternoon.

“James…”

“All in good time, my dear.”

It’s a mishmash of railways and roadways, container yards and terminals, Border Control and ships larger than a skyline - unbelievably large when you get anywhere near enough to have a perspective - as we roll along Maritime Road and turn onto 7th towards the middle channel of the bay. We turn into the prosperous, if deserted, terminal of JMC Holdings, if the sign is accurate, and come to a stop at a sprawling warehouse.

James exits the car without a word, his suit crisp and perfectly tailored against the backdrop of industry, and the scent of sea air and motor oil fills my nose as I follow. The air tastes like rust.

In the silence that follows I hear the slap of waves against a pier, and once inside the structure, it reverberates, magnified. It’s then I realize this is a boat dock, the kind that houses a ceiling over the water so boats can come inside - presumably for repair, or to offload items? I have no idea, it’s far outside my area of expertise, but either way the warehouse is larger than several football fields and I’d be lost if not following James.

Several turns and many hundreds of feet later, we’re headed back towards the water when James turns to me, abruptly, catching my elbows in his hands. “This is my gift, Anaïs. I hope you like it.” And just as suddenly, he releases me and as we walk through the doorway I see we’re in a long section of waterfront dock with high ceilings, water slapping rhythmically against the wooden sea walls. There’s no ships to be seen, no containers at all, just a long expanse of wood beams parallel to the water and there - far enough that I shake my head, wondering if I’m seeing right - a wooden chair.

A man with dark hair, silver streaks running through it, and a distinctive profile, sits upon the chair, and not by choice: ropes bind him across his chest, arms, waist, and thighs.

My mind can’t grasp what I’m seeing.

“Michael?” I gasp, and run forward. How can this be so? He’s in prison, _prison_ , for fuck’s sake. I whirl around to look at James. His smile is devastating.

“It was easy enough to get him out. It’s just tax evasion, for God’s sake, no one cares, to be honest.” James wrinkles his nose and shrugs, as if to say, “These things happen.”

And he’s right, I’m sure he’s right, but I just can’t believe it, that Senator Michael Wallace -Thomas sits across from me, here, in the flesh - the man I haven’t seen in going on three years, I suppose, and he doesn’t look a year older, it’s like he hasn’t been locked up at all. He still wears a look of superiority, and I feel a flash of anger - I’d like to wipe it off his face.

“But now you can,” James says, cutting into my thoughts, smiling as he reads me. “Come my dear -” James holds out his hand. I hesitate, looking between the two men, each addicted to power, each incredibly charismatic because of it, and uncertainly I take it. He nods, smiling. “Good. Very good. Let me show you how easy it is.” He walks to the chair and I follow as he looks down at Michael, taking his measure as Michael stares back. WIthout warning, he raises his hand and backhands Michael so hard blood spurts from his nose. I gasp, shocked, though I really shouldn’t be.

Michael sputters, but when he looks up he locks eyes not with James, but with me. “Ana…” he says, using his pet name for me, “...is this what you want? Revenge?”

James laughs, and strides down the dock, hands in the trouser pockets of his bespoke suit. “It’s not revenge, Senator. It’s retribution. Surely you understand the difference.”

Michael ignores him, eyes locked with mine. His voice is soft, uncertain… “Ana?”


	54. Chapter 54

Michael’s eyes are captivating, just as blue as ever, and I look at him seeing everything we were and could have been. The blood from his nose trails down his lips, the lips I’ve tasted so many times, and I stare, fascinated.

Then I find my voice.

“You dare? You fucking dare to exploit our past to ask me to spare you? Are you FUCKING SERIOUS?”

I’ve never felt a rush of anger like this, it’s a wave, a wave that fills me and carries me and I don’t even feel my steps as I’m suddenly face-to-face with the man I once loved more than myself. “You think I’d feel sympathy for you?”

Michael looks at me, undaunted, and suddenly he smiles, a smile coated in blood, and he speaks to me in the most intimate whisper: “This isn’t you, Ana, you were always the better part of it, you were always the better part of us. I don’t believe that’s changed.” His electric blue eyes search mine. “You were truth and beauty, yeah? The ideals. I know it was hard, I know it was difficult in the midst of everything, but Ana -” He locks his gaze with mine - “You were always the trustworthy one, the one who saw things rightly…” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that’s changed.”

My breath catches in my throat as he speaks. If I didn’t know James Moriarty, I’d say Michael Wallace-Thomas was the most brazen motherfucker I’d ever met.

“Oh, Michael, that’s very sweet, but you know what? I’ve had a chance to mull things over, and - MY ALLIANCES HAVE CHANGED.” I find myself yelling, I can’t help it, I want to beat the crap out of him and his fucking arrogant face… I turn away and pull myself together. When I turn back, my voice is steady. “My name is Anaïs. Call me by my proper name, with respect. I think you can figure out how to treat others with respect. I don’t think you’re a hopeless case - I’ll give you that.”

Michael nods, eyes narrowed. “Oh, so that’s how it is. Very well, Anaïs - you’ve found another man to direct you, eh? Someone to give you parameters and shape your ambitions. Good job. How very predictable.”  

Is he testing me? Is he checking to see if I’m committed? Because he’s just crossed a line, and I frankly don’t care anymore. I stand above him as he looks up at me, his expression saying he doesn’t believe I’m any threat at all, and I don’t bother to do him the favor of backhanding him, as James has done. I know how to throw a punch - you put your body into it - I’m not Italian-Irish for nothing, you motherfucker - and his nose breaks with a sickening pop and squelch.

Blood pours down his chin now, and I nod. “You know what you don’t understand, Michael? I could have done this before. The only reason I didn’t is that I fucking loved you, I actually loved you. All I wanted to do was to please you. You thought you had the upper hand all along, and you were right - but only because I loved you. You wasted that, because you never understood it. You’ve no idea what loyalty means.” I lick my lips, watching him wrestle with this.

To the edge of my gaze I see James grinning maniacally. I’m not myself anymore, something’s possessed me, and I stride across the wooden beams to him, chin raised. “Give me your gun.”

His eyebrows raise as he looks at me, not understanding. “Pardon?”

“Your GUN. I require a gun,” I say, spitting out every syllable as if I’m speaking to a foreigner.

James laughs, his brows raising almost comically. “Oh ho!,” he grins, and raises his arm, snapping his fingers. “Mason!”

Mason appears from an adjacent room as if summoned by magic. James keeps his eyes on me, amused beyond his expectations, and snaps his fingers again. Mason reaches inside his jacket to his shoulder holster and hands James a Sig Sauer P226. James smiles, handing it to me, and motions Mason to wait.

I check it - it’s loaded, a round in the chamber - and turn to Michael, giving in to the feeling at the base of my spine that wants to own him once and for all. It's a survival instinct, I recognize this, and even though I don’t need it at this time, I’m one short step away from following it through to the end. I can handle a pistol - I prefer a Glock, myself, but a Sig Sauer will do nicely and I brace myself in a shooting stance.

“Do you doubt me, Michael? Do you want to take that chance?”

Michael blinks, his electric blue eyes running over my form and he laughs - he fucking laughs! - and that‘s when I know he has something under cover, something we haven't yet taken into account, and it’s in that moment of revelation that I find it the hardest not to take him to his maker right then and there, but he has the upper hand, so I keep the barrel lined up at his temple and take a steadying breath.

“Oh. You think you have a plan. Well done. Really well done,” I say, spiteful, and back away. “You sick fuck. You sick motherfucker. Did you like seeing me cower? Did it turn you on?” I raise my eyebrows and I back off, but the Sig Sauer is still at temple level, and it’s only the knowledge that I’m not all in that makes me wait -- and suddenly his eyes are vulnerable, just a shade, as he looks at me, and it’s my undoing. It just makes me angrier, though, and less rational, and I walk behind him, the pistol pointed at his head, and I pace.

Finally, I speak. “Did you ever even really love me, Michael? Are you even capable? Or am I that stupid?” Tears sting behind my eyes, and I see Michael watching me carefully, and rightfully so - I’m just a few shades away from actually losing it, I feel it, and the only thing that saves him is that I hate that feeling, I hate losing control.

And who’s really to blame for it? _Let’s be honest, here._ I turn to James, and to keep from pointing the gun at him I back up until I’m next to Mason and hand it off. He looks briefly confused, but steps forward to cover Michael.

I’m past logic, past thought, I’m so angry, hasn’t James figured out yet this isn’t a good way to manipulate me? I turn to him, and my words are daggers: “You know what is the worst, the absolute WORST thing about you? You love it, you fucking LOVE IT when I lose my shit! You love it when I am a terrible version of myself! JESUS. What is wrong with you?” I shake my head, as James stares at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to figure what to do next.

He paces away from me, down the dock, then shakes his head and smiles broadly, hands in his pockets as he faces me. His eyebrows arch towards the ceiling as he speaks. “You’re so ANGRY, Anais, because if you were truthful , you like that - version - of yourself so much better than the one you’re showing me now.”  His insufferable smile is more like a smirk. “Is it possible, angel, to actually be JEALOUS of yourself?”

I’m so angry I actually can’t speak for a moment, and then my voice returns. “Jealous? Are you fucking serious? You know what you are? You’re fucking sick, just as he is -” I gesture towards Michael, who watches with interest. “You’re just alike, the two of you. I’m so fucking done.”

I walk down the indoor pier, wondering where I can escape to outdoors. To hell with them, both of them ---

James watches as Anaïs walks away, then raises a hand and snaps his fingers. “Tiger,” he says and there’s a sound from overhead and then Sebastian Moran drops from the rafters, landing lightly, on the balls of his feet.

“Sir?” 

James motions to his driver in the direction Anaïs has taken, “Mason, follow her,” and then stands with two fingers steepled at his lips, and regards his sniper. Finally, he speaks. “What was the amount of our wager?”

Sebastian’s face is carefully impassive. “I don’t believe we agreed on an amount, sir.”

James reaches for his billfold, and peeling off a hundred-dollar-bill, hands it to Sebastian. “Still, I always pay my debts.”

He turns then to look at the figure in the chair. “Pity you're not of use to me. I always like to have a Senator in my pocket." He shrugs. "Take care of him, Tiger. The world doesn’t need another politician.”

Sebastian places the bill inside his jacket and his hand, when he draws it out, holds a long, thin length of silk rope. “Indoor work,” he says to James, offhand.

James smiles appreciatively and starts to turn away, but just then Seb’s phone rings from his inner pocket. James raises his eyebrows, and Sebastian’s face registers surprise for just a moment. Only three people in the world have this number, and one of them has just left while another stands in front of him.

James nods. “Answer it.”

Sebastian switches the garrote into his left hand and pulls out his phone. The caller ID is blocked.

Seb’s voice is curt. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end is beguilingly female. “Col. Sebastian Moran.”

“Who is this?”

“I understand you’re the Chief of Staff for your employer. Perhaps you could pass on a message. I, too, am Chief of Staff, and my employer is sitting right in front of you.”

Sebastian’s face remains impassive, but he glances at James for just a second and it’s enough for James to know something serious has happened. “Your message?”

“Tell your employer that’s a very unwise decision he’s just made.”

“Care to enlighten me as to why?”

“Of course, Colonel. I’m sending you a photo. You can put me on hold.”

Sebastian’s phone chimes, and he does just that, and swipes over to his inbox. He blinks, and silently hands the phone to James, who keeps his face blank as he looks at the photo of Anaïs, on her knees just outside the warehouse, a pistol held to the back of her head. James hands the phone back to Sebastian with a scant millimeter of a nod.

Sebastian speaks quietly. “My employer is a reasonable man. I’m sure we can work something out, Miss -?”

“Oh, I apologize. It’s Adler, Irene Adler. It would be for the best if we all walked away unscathed, don’t you agree?”

And Sebastian can hear her smile.

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